


Somewhere Between Past and Future

by DayandKnight



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, PTSD, Past Rape/Non-con, eventual poly relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14037927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayandKnight/pseuds/DayandKnight
Summary: Buccaneer doesn't have high expectations when he moves into a warehouse loft in the Briggs district of North City, but he's pleasantly surprised. The roommates are nice, if quirky, and no one asks about his prosthetic arm or obvious PTSD. There's only one problem: his stupid brain can't accept that his new roommateisn'this long-dead best friend.





	1. Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! There are several things I should be doing instead of starting another fic, but this needed out. 
> 
> A few points:  
> 1st: Many thanks to Illidria who helped me get unstuck and basically solved all my plotting problems. She's amazing and you should read all her fics.  
> 2nd: While this fic is actually fairly fluffy and sweet, it does deal with some heavier subject matter. I'll include appropriate warnings on all chapters so you can keep yourself safe. The Rape Warning is for an implied/referenced rape, and trauma related to that, but there will be NO graphic descriptions or actual rape scene.  
> 3rd: If you're not too traumatized by the warnings, happy reading!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Implied/referenced rape.

If he weren’t so bizarrely desperate, Buccaneer doubted he ever would have considered the old loft above the warehouse. The building gave off an aura of dilapidation and he wouldn’t be surprised to see a drug deal going down in the narrow alley behind it. 

The inside wasn’t much better. A small, dingy, lobby covered in OSHA posters and worker’s memos was all that separated the entrance to the loft from the warehouse proper. It had an elevator at least, so that was something. There were a few other lofts, but none of them seemed occupied as he made his way to #7 at the far end of the building. 

The peeling paint on the door is  _ probably  _ just revealing rust, but Buccaneer isn’t discounting the possibility of blood as he knocks. The door swings open revealing a smiling man with a hairstyle shockingly similar to a pineapple and, stranger still, wearing what looks like a  _ sweater vest _ . 

He holds out a hand, “you must be Buccaneer I’m Miles, come on in.” Miles is far from the cretin lowlife Buccaneer had been picturing, and he doesn’t flinch when he grasps Buccaneer’s prosthetic hand, so that’s a good sign. “Here, this is Karley-” he points out a slightly younger man with earbuds in, who waves, “-and this is Neil.” Neil, who looks half-asleep, nods from his place leaning on the counter.

“Aren’t there four of you?” 

Miles’ nose crinkles, “not a man for small talk, then! I can appreciate that.” Buccaneer makes an effort to apologize, but Miles waves it away. “You read the info we sent you, that’s good! You’d be surprised how many people don’t.”

“Our other roommate is out of town just now, but she trusts us.”

“Trusts Miles, you mean,” Karley interjects good-naturedly, “she’s Miles’ girlfriend.” 

Miles makes a noise that’s probably a snort and adjusts his dark glasses, “she’d trust you two a lot more if you’d stop breaking things.” He turns back to Buccaneer, “so, would you like a tour?”

“Seems like the logical step.”

“Sounds good!” Miles gestures around, “obviously this is our open-plan living room and kitchen, what you see is about all there is. We split the bills pretty evenly, so there’s a shared Netflix and an old PS3, if you want anything fancier you’ll have to either get it yourself or get everyone to agree to split.” He points at a punching bag and tidy rack of weights in the corner. “Mira’s, you touch you die, got it?” 

Buccaneer holds his hands up to show his understanding, “okay, sure.”    

“Same sort of thing in the fridge, communal food and a cooking rotation. In theory.” He shoots a look at Neil who’s looking a little too intently at his coffee mug, “ _ some people  _ are banned after an unfortunate incident involving a tragic misunderstanding of the difference between cooking oil and motor oil.”

“What the hell?” 

“It was  _ one time,  _ and besides Mira’s the one who put a phone in the blender.”

“Do you want to be the one who tells her she’s not allowed in the kitchen?” Miles nods at Neil’s look of horror, “I didn’t think so.”

Buccaneer’s nerves, which had waned at the discovery their female roommate was dating one of them, and therefore shouldn’t be too difficult for him to talk to, flare again at the way they all seemed just a little afraid of her. 

“Anyway,” Miles continues his tour, “the door across the way is Mira’s and my room. Down the hall, here we have the bathroom-” he pushes open the door and glances in, “it’s not pretty, but it’s serviceable. Mind you’ll have to space out your shower if you want hot water. Across the hall is Karley, and next to him is Neil, which means next to the bathroom is the open room.”

Miles pushes open the door and Buccaneer walks in. It’s a little bigger than he’d been expecting, but not large. In lieu of a closet, someone had affixed an industrial metal pipe to the wall in the corner. There were a few small windows with dusty blinds, but they let in a bit of light, the ceiling showed no signs of mold or mildew, and it didn’t smell bad. 

“Okay,” he turns back and nods at his anxious tour guide, “it looks fine. What else do we need to do?”

“We’ll just go over the lease and the roommate contract and if you’re good with those you can sign them. You could move in today if you wanted.”

It sounds almost too easy, but it’s also exactly what he needs. Sleeping in his car is getting old, not to mention bitterly cold in the North City fall. The lease is pretty straightforward, and at first glance the roommate contract is, too. But, after initialling the first page of agreements about things like groceries, cooking, cleaning, and the thermostat he flips it over and finds another page and a half. 

The items on these pages range from unexpectedly solid “I will not be disparaging or dismissive to my roommates or their guests on the grounds of race, religion, sexual orientation, gender...” He nods as he initials that, (“Oh, good,” Miles says from over his shoulder, “sometimes people hesitate and then we have to throw them out.”) to the blatantly ridiculous “I will not antagonize, call upon, or otherwise incite the house ghost/poltergeist into action. Further, I will respect the house ghost/poltergeist.” He initials this, too. Nothing can be worse than the ghosts in his own mind, after all. 

He reads the signatures on the last page before adding his own. Neil writes in a scrawling chicken scratch that he only works out is his by process of elimination. Karley’s signature loops and swirls elegantly. Miles’ reads “F. Miles” in a script that’s somewhere between flowing and sharp with neat edges on the “F” and “M”. It’s a very distinct script, paired with the man’s dark glasses, tan skin and silver hair, and ever-so-slight accent, Buccaneer’s pretty confident his new roommate is Ishvalan. It makes no difference to him. Mira’s signature is just a capital “M” followed by two squiggly lines. He hesitates for just a moment before putting pen to paper and scrawling his own signature.

The other three cheer, and Miles tucks the contract back into it’s folder. “So, when do you want to move in?”

Buccaneer sits back, “were you serious about today?” 

There’s a slight crease in the other man’s brow, but it vanishes as swiftly as it came. “Sure! Do you need any help with getting your stuff?”

“Nah, I have some stuff in a storage unit, but most of it is just in my car.”

“Well, we’ll help you with that, then.” 

The process of unloading his belongings and carting them into his room doesn’t take very long, but if any of the others find anything about this odd, they don’t say anything. 

“No bed?” Miles asks, but makes no comment when Buccaneer shakes his head. Which is just as well, because Buccaneer doesn’t want to have to explain that not having a bed means not having a bed to fall out of when he has nightmares. Maybe, when he has time and money, he’ll buy a mattress, but for now a sleeping bag on the floor is far from the worst he’s dealt with.

\---

The pipes rattle and the rafters creak, and during the day noises waft up from the warehouse below, but that’s all to be expected, so Buccaneer isn’t perturbed by it. In fact, he thinks the noises of the old building cover some of his nightmare addled groans and cries, since no one gives him odd looks over breakfast or asks uncomfortable questions.

Three days after moving in, Neil rounds them all up and insists on hitting the bars “one more time before Mira comes back”. Miles drags his feet and is persuaded on the grounds of bonding with the new roommate, which forces Buccaneer to accept. They all pile into Karley’s car which is the only four door, and debate where to go.

“How about that Drachman place on 7th?” Buccaneer suggests when Karley shoots down a third bar on the basis of “trashy music” and they consider. Miles looks uncomfortable, but acquieses when everyone else agrees.

“So,” Buccaneer leans on the bar with Miles, watching Karley and Neil attempt flirting, “Mira doesn’t approve?”

“What?”

“Of bars? Neil was pretty insistent we go before she comes back.”

“Oh,” Miles chuckles, “no, it’s nothing like that.” He takes a swig of whatever his drink is and glances at Buccaneer, “Mira’s got this way about her, she’s gorgeous and confident, and people just flock to her. Male  _ and  _ female and that knocks out the competition for them both.”  

“She sounds like quite the woman.”

“She is.” Miles smiles fondly and then nods toward Karley who is chatting with a young dark-haired man with glasses, “he looks nice.”

“Mmm,” Buccaneer eyes Miles curiously, gauging his reaction, “cute, too.”

Miles grins, “yeah? Gonna steal him away?”

“Nah,” Buccaneer chuckles, “I’m not looking for a relationship right now. Though,” he snorts, “I guess if I were, a place like this wouldn’t be the place to look.”

“Mhm.” Miles takes another sip and watches the couples dancing. He’d met Mira in a place like this, but that isn’t a story worth getting into with his newest roommate.       

\---

It’s been only a few weeks, but to Mira it feels as though she hasn’t seen Miles for years as she seeks him out at the luggage carousel. A tap on her shoulder has her spinning around. Miles beams, kisses her, and pulls her into a deep hug. When he steps back, he smiles fondly and adjusts her pink knit hat.

“How was the conference?” 

“Predictable,” she shrugs, “but corporate liked my new design.” 

“That’s great.” She nods tiredly, yawning, so he pats her back. “Let me grab your luggage and we’ll go home.”

The drive from Briggs airport is quiet, Mira staring absently out the window at the passing headlights. Miles watches her out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t try to engage her, knowing she prefers the quiet after a long and tiring journey. 

“Would you like to go straight to bed?” Miles whispers as they creep into the apartment, trying not to disturb their sleeping roommate at the late hour, but Mira shakes her head.  

“You know I always feel so gross after traveling.” 

He nods and presses a kiss to her forehead, “I’ll go put up your bags and grab the shower caddies, meet you in the bathroom.” 

She has started the water when he walks in, it takes a long time to warm up, after all, but is watching it fall instead of making any moves to get in. 

“Come on, love,” he coaxes, tugging on her the hem of her shirt, “I know you’re tired, but you’ve got to shower.” As she begins to undress, he adds with a slightly mischievous smile, “come on, I’ll wash your back.” 

The warm water wakes her up a little, and she wraps her arms around him, stretching on her toes, kissing him slowly. His hands slide down her body, and she smiles against his lips.

“Did you miss me?” 

He smiles in response, giving the curves beneath his hands a squeeze, “Always.” When she squirms in a response, his fingers dig in, hefting her in his arms and pressing her against the tile of the shower surround. Her legs wrap around his waist, and he slides into her, stealing her breath.  

By the time they finish their reunion, the water has grown lukewarm and they’re happier than they’ve been in weeks.   

\---

_ He dreams of a curving mountain road and going fast, too fast. He can taste the desperation as he fumbles with his phone  pick up, come on, pick up.  He’s been over this road a thousand times, knows every pothole, every bump, every curve, but he can’t avoid a single one.  _

_The phone’s ringing, trying to pick up the call that dropped in the tunnels. Come on, come on. She sounds worse, somehow, when she answers. His motorcycle lurches as he whispers stay with me. Her voice grows faint, others growing louder, laughter and drunken shouts filling his ear. He doesn’t see the ice, doesn’t see anything until his bike is going one way and he’s going another. _

He jerks awake, groans, and rubs his eyes. His prosthetic arm digs in a little too-hard, and it feels like a punishment. A glance at his alarm clock tells him its earlier than he wants, but liveable. He pushes himself out of bed and tugs on a bathrobe. He glances in the mirror, seeing he needs to shave, but decides to wait. He’d promised to demonstrate his cooking skills with a breakfast since it’s Saturday and none of them have work.

Deciding he might as well get started, he trudges out of his room. The first thing he notices is the sound of someone making good use of the punching bag. The second thing he notices is the discarded winter running gear by the door; ear warmers, coats, gloves, even a pair of trackpants are all in a heap on the floor. He turns the corner and sees Miles, in a tank and sweatpants, reclining with his legs over the arm of the sofa. He has a towel around his neck and a book in his hands. He glances up and smiles. 

He gets his first glimpse of Mira who is pummeling the punching bag like it has personally offended her. She’s wearing a sports bra and shorts, and seems to be responsible for most of the clothes on the floor. Buccaneer’s stomach clenches and he can feel heat rising in his cheeks. She’s both curvy and muscular, and most of the left-side of her torso is covered in tattoos. A twining ivy that spikes out in thorns runs up and down her shoulder, vanishing under the lines of her bra. It reemerges on the other side and slinks under her shorts, running down her hip and stopping at her mid-thigh. It has leaves and even flowers, but is entirely black. Her right side, in stark contrast is almost bare, a single semicolon stretched across her shoulder.

Miles clears his throat delicately and Buccaneer realizes he’s staring. His face flames and he knows it’s red as a tomato. Miles returns to his book, trying, and failing, to hide a smirk. Buccaneer hurries into the kitchenette and busies himself with making omelettes. 

The noises of the one-sided death battle dies down and when Buccaneer dares to glance up from his work, Mira is stretching. She still hasn’t even glanced at him, but as she stands and starts gathering her things, Miles taps the phone attached to her arm and tugs the cord of her earbud which she pulls out. Miles nods towards him and she finally looks over, seemingly vaguely surprised. 

Buccaneer’s heart stops. The blue eyes piercing him are as familiar as they are unexpected. He can’t breathe, can’t tear his eyes away, as his heart screams at him what his brain denies. Standing a few yards away, is Olivier Armstrong. 

In place of logic or even a coherent statement he whispers, “but you’re  _ dead. _ ”


	2. Little Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Responsibilities? What are those?
> 
> This chapter does have some brief discussion of amputation as well as a few scenes in a children's hospital, in case either of those are troubling for you.

_ "But you're dead." _

Mira stares at him, face coolly blank, and Miles shoots him a confused look. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Buccaneer shakes his head and rubs his eyes. This isn’t the first time this has happened to him, his brain associating blue eyes and blonde hair with Olivier before logic kicks in and reminds him of the impossibility of that thought.

“Sorry, I thought you were someone else for a second.”

“Mm.” She nods, still unimpressed. 

Buccaneer smiles apologetically and glances down at his cooking. “I’m making omelettes if you’d like one.”

“That sounds great!” Miles is smiling a little too brightly, obviously trying to smooth over the awkwardness, but Mira makes an odd little “tch!” sound and shakes her head. Miles watches as she walks away, his brow furrowed. 

“What’s that delicious smell?” Karley appears in the doorway, hair still rumpled from sleep, headphones, for once, hanging around his neck.

“Omelettes! Want one?” 

They dig in, eating in peaceable quiet punctuated by occasional comments about the food or the weather. Mira wanders past, cleaned up and dressed in a smart business suit. 

“Have a good day at work,” Miles stops her to press a kiss to her cheek. She nods, kisses the top of his head, and carries on.

“Tell Henschel ‘hi’ for me!” Karley calls after her, earning a look of sheer annoyance. 

“Who’s Henschel?”

“One of her employees,” Miles explains, as Karley snickers, “good at what he does, but a bit of a pain in the ass.”

“Her employees? Dang, what’s she do?”

Miles practically beams, drawing himself up proudly, “she runs the local branch of Little Bear.”

“The what now?” 

“Little Bear Medical Supplies. They make children’s medical supplies, Mira’s focus is on making them more child friendly and non-frightening.”

“Oh, that’s cool.” 

“Yup,” Miles nods happily, “she’s the best.” 

\---

It’s a bad habit, and an embarrassing one, but Buccaneer’s addicted to  _ Dancing with the Stars.  _ He turns it on with all the shame-faced nervousness of a teen with dirty magazines. Anastasia Bradley, First Lady of Amestris, is one of the contestants this season and he’s amazed at the grace and refinement she demonstrates, but she is lacking some of the pizzaz her professional dance partner, Roy Mustang, is trying to bring to their dances. 

He hears a key turning in the lock and frantically changes the channel. By happy coincidence, he finds an MMA fight on the first try and sits back, swigging his beer and trying to look like that’s what he’s been watching the whole time.

Miles peers in, and it might be his imagination, but he looks faintly disappointed at the sight of Buccaneer on the sofa. 

“Good fight?” Buccaneer grunts an affirmative, even though he has no idea what’s happening in the fight. “Hmm,” Miles kicks off his shoes and pads over, grabbing a beer from the fridge on his way, “mind if I join you?”  

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” He wonders if he sounds as disappointed as he feels. His chances of seeing Roy and Anastasia do the foxtrot are slipping away with every second that Miles’ eyes are glued to the fight.

“Who’s going to win, do you think?”

“An-Er, The Anaconda.” He’s heard of The Anaconda before, at least, a female fighter named something weird like “Martel”.

“Huh.” 

Miles sips his beer thoughtfully, and Buccaneer’s afraid he’s made a poor choice, but Miles doesn’t say anything else. They continue watching the fight for fifteen painful minutes before Neil, too, comes home from work.

“I didn’t know you were into that stuff, Miles.” 

“I’m not really, just being friendly.”

Buccaneer resists the urge to smack himself in the face at the realization. Pineapple-headed, sweater vest wearing,  _ accountants,  _ don’t watch MMA. Dancing with the Stars might have been a step too far, but if he’d been thinking he probably could have put on the latest episode of that murder mystery show everyone’s been ranting about. Anything would be better than the bloody, sweaty, grunting filled show playing out in front of them.

“In that case, mind if I play some Fallout? It’s been a hell of a day.”

They both agree quickly and Neil drops onto the floor, switching over to the game without another word. Buccaneer pulls out his laptop and starts browsing online for a cheap, comfortable, chair to put in his bedroom and Miles grabs a book off the end table, burying his nose in it immediately. 

“Whoever scheduled a focus group for the week after the biggest conference of the year deserves to be fired.” Mira’s grumpy pronouncement is the first thing out of her mouth as she stomps in the door. 

Miles glances up at her, his finger holding his place in the book, “wasn’t that you, dear?” 

She shoots him a dirty look as Neil snickers over his video game. “I hear you laughing, scruffy, and I know how to delete your save data. Permanently.” 

Buccaneer watches covertly as the woman crosses toward her room. She pauses at the edge of the sofa to talk quietly to Miles, their fingers brushing together as they speak. They have a proximity thing, he’s noticed. Not an overt, nauseating, pda thing, but this subtle thing they do whenever they’re in the same room, drifting together as though propelled by magnetism. They’ll sit side by side, feet touching ever so slightly, or the back of a hand resting on the other’s thigh. When they pass each other, they’ll invariably brush against one another, barely enough to notice, but unfailingly consistent. It’s both odd and fascinating. 

A quirk of a blonde brow at him tells him his staring hasn’t gone unnoticed and he glances back down at his laptop, face flushing. She looks so much like Olivier in that moment that he does a double take, his eyes snapping back up, but she’s already sauntering away, her long blonde mane swaying in her wake. 

He knows better, he really does, but his fingers slide over the keyboard, unbidden and open a file simply labeled “O”. He had meant to delete it, a thousand times over, but he couldn’t bring himself to it. Her bright, smiling, face greets him, salt on a wound as deep as his soul. His eyes trace the bobbed hair and the two eyes that sparkle up at him. Maybe she doesn’t look so much like Mira, after all. She doesn’t look so much like he remembers, either.     

\---

It’s too early for, whatever Buccaneer is seeing in front of him. Mira is wearing a pair of pink and black scrubs covered in little cartoon puppies. Miles is decked out in a navy blue set with sailboats on it. Neil and Karley, both in pajamas, are carting boxes of teddy bears, dolls, and coloring books out the door. 

“What on earth-?”

“We’re on our way to the children’s hospital,” Mira explains.

“All of you?”

“Do you really think I’m going to subject  _ children  _ to those two?”

“Hey!” 

She turns and smiles brightly at Karley, “One word:  _ bubblegum _ .” He blushes and keeps moving.

“Would you like to come?” Miles offers, as he carefully tucks a glossy picture book into one of the boxes.

“Me? Why?”

“We’re handing out toys and visiting with the kids for a little while. New faces are always exciting,” Miles pauseds, eyeing him thoughtfully, “plus you look like a kid kind of person.” 

Buccaneer snorts, “most people think I’m too scary to be around children.”

“Hurry up and decide,” Mira orders, stern but not angry, “we’re running late.” 

Buccaneer draws a deep breath, and nods. “Yeah, okay, I’ll go.”  

\---

Mira taps her fingers on the steering wheel, Miles’ and Buccaneer’s quiet conversation nothing but a distant murmur in her ears. She’d originally started visiting the hospital to meet the kids who would use the products she designed, as well as learn what they liked. At first she’d found it daunting and distressing, nearly fleeing after only ten minutes, but she’d managed to hold it together long enough to actually get to know some of the children and their families.

Before long, her visits were a regular thing, Miles joining her more often than not. The children loved him, loved them both, but the children couldn’t seem to get enough of him. She loved watching the children interact with him, but she’d found herself at a bit of a loss, until she’d found her way to the adolescent ward; there was anger and bitterness, hurt and sorrow that she was very familiar with. There, no pineapples bedecked in sunglasses, picture books, or teddy bears in hospital gowns helped. There, she knew how to relate, how to reassure and lift spirits. 

Even so, a ball of anxiety formed in her stomach before every visit, her heart racing just a little, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. Miles, by comparison, was perfectly at ease, though a glance in her rearview revealed Buccaneer--looking rather squashed in her tiny backseat--was a little pale, his face contorted in a nervous frown.   

She pulls into the portico by the visitors entrance and smiles to herself as a group of volunteers rush out to greet them, rolling carts ready to receive their gifts. Organized by their teen leader, a girl named Rose, they quickly unload the car. Miles heads in with Buccaneer to fill out a few visitor forms while Mira parks the car, she makes her way in the door, running into Dr. Marcoh almost immediately. He gives her a thin, tired, smile. 

“It’s good of you to come, Mira.”

“I’m glad to be here.”

He nods, “I know you usually like to start off with our older patients, but we could really use you in neonatal today. We have a baby boy for you to hold.”

“When were his parents last here?” She asks as she follows him to the locked ward. 

His look is bleak as he swipes his ID. “Last week, a day after they brought him here.”

She draws a deep breath, swallowing her anger, and nods her understanding. Within minutes, she’s seated in a worn rocker, the baby bundled in her arms. She watches the monitors, over time more familiar with what they mean, and stares through the tubes and bandages to make out the baby under them. Time passes slowly, her long sessions of silence interrupted only by nurses coming and going, checking on the infant and thanking her in quiet whispers.

Upstairs, Miles reads his way through picture book after picture book, honey-obsessed bears and adventurous rabbits holding the children in thrall. Buccaneer, at first, stands back awkwardly, but as they move onto another word, can’t help but stop when he sees a little girl wheeling herself down the opposite hall, with an air of determination.

“Whatcha doing?” 

She gasps and spins the chair to glare at him. “What’s it to you?” 

He shrugs easily, metal arm glinting. “Just wondering.” 

She eyes his metal arm and then says, “I was trying to make it to the candy machine before that jerk Dominic notices.” 

He weighs his options before asking “why doesn’t Dominic want you to go to the candy machine?” 

“He says it makes me ‘too hyper’ and I can’t have any candy before dinner.” She scowls, crossing her arms over her chest. “I hate this stupid hospital.”

He doesn’t ask why she’s in the hospital, it seems only too obvious, and if he can’t sympathise with an amputee stuck in a hospital for what probably feels like an eternity to her, what good is he?

He walks behind her and grabs the handles of her chair. “Okay, where’s the candy machine?” 

“Down the hall, take a left, and it’s by the elevators.” She still doesn’t sound happy, but compared to her earlier gloom, she’s positively chipper.

“If Dominic asks you got there on your own, okay?” He pushes her down the hall, takes a left, and sure enough a vending machine glows beside the elevator doors. He eyes the choices, trying not to think like the sensible adult he supposedly is and more like the kid he is at heart. “Which one do you want?”

She leans forward, far enough he fears the chair will tip and presses her face almost to the glass. “Those.” She points and he has to duck down to see what she’s after.

“Good choice! I love peanut butter cups.” He straightens and begins digging coins out of his pocket to feed into the machine.

“I  _ have _ money.” 

“Did you take it from Dominic?”

“No!” She glares at him and he gives her his most unimpressed stare. She wilts a little, “I asked one of the other kid’s dads for it and he felt sorry for me and handed it over.”

Buccaneer sighs, “well, kiddo, I’m going to give you some advice,” he punches the number for the candy, and listens to it fall, “you’ll feel better about yourself when you stop taking other people’s pity.” He grabs the candy and hands it to her.

She snatches it, but glares at him harder. “You’re giving me pity candy.”

He shakes his head, “not pity. An investment.”

“A what?”

“I want to see you get better, not sit here and wallow in self-pity.”

“I can’t do anything but sit here! I don’t have any legs!” 

He pats her head with his prosthetic arm. “Believe me when I say I get it. I spent way too long wallowing after I lost my arm. I don’t want you to make the same mistake.

“Paninya!” A gruff voice calls down the hall and she shoves the candy under her blanket. “Paninya! You know better than to go off on your own!”

Buccaneer glances at the girl--Paninya--and mouths “Dominic?”

She nods. “I’m sorry, Dominic.” She looks genuinely remorseful, and Dominic softens just a little. “It’s boring in that stuffy room.”

“They’re doing stories in the sitting room right now, do you want to miss those?”

“What with  _ pineapple-head _ ?” 

Buccaneer and Dominic both snort. “Ah, crud. I was supposed to stick with pineapple-head! I guess I’d better go back that way.” 

Paninya rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically. “I  _ guess  _ I can listen to the kid stories.”

\---

_ It smells like antiseptic. He never smells in his other dreams, but in this one the smell drowns out almost everything else. It’s a dim grey-white, and something is beeping by his ear. His arm hurts, but when he tries to look over, his head turning slowly as though through molasses, he can’t see it. He wiggles his fingers to no avail.  _

_ It takes a minute for his brain to understand what he’s seeing, or rather not seeing. A gaping void opens up where his arm should be, pain exploding where the limb isn’t. He screams, reverting to curses and prayers in his native tongue. The void swallows him whole.  _

He jerks awake, panting. His throat is dry and he swallows painfully, grasping for the water bottle he always keeps by his bed. He drinks slowly, sloshing the water down his front. No one runs down the hall, bangs on the walls, or even gently knocks on his door. Either he hasn’t been screaming as loud as he thinks, or he’s finally found roommates that understand that he’s not dying and doesn’t want to be disturbed.

He flips his pillow over and lays back down, resting his head on the cool side. The floor is hard and sleep elusive. He sighs, as he shifts again, trying to work out a kink in his neck. If his roommates don’t say anything in the morning he’s calling it official and buying a mattress. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, and please do let me know what you think. :)


	3. Give a Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy reading!

_ The firm has been promising to upgrade him to full-time for months, but until they follow through he’s stuck working nights at the Drachman bar that got him through college. The loud music, bright lights, and drunk patrons are long past old, but there is something, or rather someone, new to pique his interest. _

_ Mira is a college student still, but he thinks it’s because she took some time off because even though she’s a slender wisp of a thing, she seems to be about the same age as him. She’s a hard-worker, unnervingly quiet, but reliable.  _

_ He’s pretty sure she owns only one pair of jeans and three sweaters, but the oversize, slightly worn, clothes don’t prevent her from being harassed. She reveals early on that’s she’s adapt at dodging attempts to slap her ass or grope her breasts, and she has a glare that can stop men in their tracks. Even so, there are constant demands for more revealing garments.  _

_ “Mira!” The manager, Kimblee, calls to her as they’re preparing to open. “Would it kill you to show a bit of skin?” She pauses for only half a second, shooting him a glare, and continues pulling stools off the bar, setting them upright on the floor perhaps a tad more forcefully than before. “Come on,” he leans across the bar to leer at her, “it’s what half our customers come here for.” _

_ “There’s a strip club up the road if that’s what they’re after.” _

_ He reaches for her arm and she jerks away, glaring. He holds his hands up appeasingly, but shakes his head. “Fine, I get it. But you’re only short-changing yourself on tips.” _

_ “Tch!”  _

_ He doesn’t know what she’s studying, but she keeps a book behind the bar and studies whenever she can. The customers and even some of the other bartenders make fun of her, but Miles always smiles encouragingly and waves her to keep studying when he can help a customer instead of her. It’s a long time before she thanks him, and even longer before she smiles back. He likes her smile; it makes her seem younger and lighter, bringing a light to her piercing blue eyes.  _

_ When Kimblee decides she’s too distracted by her studies he sends her out to wait tables instead. Miles can practically feel the tension radiating off her, but he thinks he must be the only one as she endures still more cat-calls and come-ons from drunk men.  _

_ Things go wrong in the span of a breath. One moment she’s grabbing a tray to take to one of her tables, the next the drinks are on the floor, and she’s pressed against the counter, some creep emboldened by a drink too many practically on top of her. Miles shoves him, while a regular yanks him up by a fistfull of hair. As the bouncer drags him out, Mira stands there, frozen. She doesn’t look scared or angry, just blank and unseeing.  _

_ “Hey,” he taps her arm, finally getting a startled reaction out of her, “go take a break. I’ll cover for you.” She stares at him, so he points toward the backroom. “Go on, you need to breathe. I’ll take care of things.” _

_ She blinks slowly, walking away without another word. He doesn’t see her again, so he assumes she was more rattled than she looked and went home. It means he’s left alone to close up the bar, but he can’t bring himself to be upset by it. He just hopes she made it home okay, he doesn’t know where, if anywhere, she actually lives and she seemed a little disoriented. _

_ He’s more thorough than a lot of their coworkers, and he doubts anyone else would bother tidying the shelves in the storeroom. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have even seen her, curled in a corner under the big table that they use to unbox ingredients. She’s leaning on the wall, her arms wrapped around her legs, her chin on her knees.  _

_ He crouches to her level, “Mira?” She doesn’t respond, only buries her face. “Are you alright?” She shrugs. “Are you hurt?” A shake of her head leaves him more confused. He shifts to sit all the way down, leaning on the table leg caddy corner to her. “Can I do anything?” _

_ “What could you possibly do?” To his surprise, she doesn’t sound angry, just tired.  _

_ It’s his turn to shrug. “I could call someone for you, or take you somewhere.” She shakes her head again and he draws a breath. He’s heard the rumors, but he’s never wanted to believe them. “Mira, do you have anywhere to go?”  _

_ “I’ll figure something out. I always do.”  _

_ “Do you want to come home with me?” Her foot finds his shin with alarming precision and he yelps in pain. “Ow, hey! I didn’t mean it like that!” He rubs his now-bruised leg and shoots her a look of annoyance, which goes unnoticed in the dark. “I have a sofa in my living room you could sleep on. It’s not the nicest, but it’s warm and dry.”  _

_ She regards him suspiciously, eyes practically glowing in the faint light of the storeroom. “Why?” _

_ “Why what?”  _

_ “If you don’t want-” she shrugs uncomfortably, “you know, why would you take me home?”  _

_ “I don’t like the idea of my friends freezing to death on some park bench somewhere.” _

_ “We aren’t friends.”  _

_ “My mistake, then.” He watches her, debating his choices. She seems to be trying to get him to leave, but he doesn’t get the feeling she should be left alone. “What if we decided to be friends?” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Let’s decide to be friends, right here and right now.”  _

_ “Tch! That isn’t how it works.” _

_ “It can be, if you want.” _

_ She puffs her cheeks, exhaling slowly while she deliberates. “Fine. But, you’d better be a fucking good friend.”  _

\---

The envelope finds him at his new apartment without a hitch. He grips it in metal fingers, watching the thick paper wrinkle under his tight hold. The legal firm’s name is embossed in gold lettering in the corner, but he doesn’t need it to know who it’s from. The posh paper and unsettling regularity are more than enough.

He breaks the seal, and slides the check out easily.  _ Blood money _ . The very sight of it fills him with contempt. He shoves the envelope through the paper shredder kept by the mailbox for that very purpose, but knows better than to try the same with check. There are few people in the world more stubborn than Philip Gargantos Armstrong, afterall. __

\---

Neil watches the way Buccaneer rubs his shoulder and listens to the ominous crack of prosthetics in need of a little TLC over the top of his laptop. He gets that the man has pride, and maintenance can be expensive, but he can’t stop cringing. He tries to focus back on his work when the artificial joints give a series of grinding pops and Buccaneer grunts in pain. He closes the laptop and takes a deep breath.

“Hey, would you like me to take a look at that?”

“Huh?”

“I’m working on my PhD in prosthetic engineering, but a novice mechanic could tell that thing is half a workout from snapping in half.” Buccaneer gives him a look and he shrugs. “That is a touch dramatic, sue me. But, for real. If you don’t want me to look at it at least let me recommend a guy.” 

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Anything to stop you sounding like the tin man every time you move your arm.”

Buccaneer snorts, but unbuttons his shirt, shivering slightly in just his sleeveless undershirt. Neil clambers over to inspect the arm, chewing a pencil absently. 

“This is nice work,” he spits the pencil out, using the eraser to poke at some bearings, “but, dude, you have got to start doing your routine maintenance. Didn’t they teach you how?”

“Have  _ you  _ ever tried to oil ball bearings in your own elbow?” 

“Fair enough.” He prods a little more and nods. “I need to go grab some tools, why don’t you put something on the tv? This might take a while.”

Buccaneer grabs the remote and flips through the channels, stopping on a rerun of Dancing with the Stars. He’s pretty sure Neil would laugh, but he’s seen him focus on projects before and he’s pretty much oblivious to the outside world. Sure enough, Neil is muttering under his breath and sketching notes between prodding at the arm. He doesn’t even glance at the screen. 

The door behind them opens and Buccaneer scrabbles for the remote, but Neil has covered the sofa in tools and he can’t locate it. He feels the sofa behind him sink down, Miles’ face appears in his peripheral vision.

“Whatcha watching?”

“Nothing. It’ just, um,” he can feel himself blushing, “the remote fell on the floor and-” 

“Mmh.” Miles grabs the remote off his lap, “I can see you looked real hard.” He glances up at the screen. “Was this what you were watching before we suffered through that MMA fight?” Buccaneer nods and Miles grins. “You do realize this is a non-judgmental household, right? Besides, I’ve been dying to see what happens.” 

Buccaneer gapes. “ _ You  _ watch Dancing with the Stars?” 

“Who doesn’t? I’m surprised Karley’s not in here.”

Neil finally glances up from his work. “He’s on a date.”

“Ooh, who with?”

“That guy he met at the bar, Kain or something? He’s a radio-fanatic, too.”

“The cute one?” Buccaneer interjects, curiously.

Neil shrugs, “as the straightest person in the room, I  _ really _ can’t answer that.” 

Buccaneer eyes Miles as casually as he can, “oh?”

Miles’ smile is charming and innocent. “Well, I did think the guy was cute.”   

“Oh.” Buccaneer turns back to finally watch Roy and Anastasia foxtrot, trying to decide what to make of  _ that  _ answer.

\---

She’s been on edge lately. Miles can’t help but notice her distress whenever she’s around, and he wants desperately to make it better. The tiny desk in the corner of their room has never been much of a work station for him, but she sits at it for hours, poring over designs and figures that mean little to him.

He rubs her shoulders and kisses her neck, and she smiles faintly up at him. “Is everything alright? You’ve been,” he chooses his words with the utmost care, “tired lately.”

“Just a lot going on at work,” she rubs her forehead, “not to mention, I’ve got a headache.” 

He glances around and spies her reading glasses on her bedside table. “Are you maybe forgetting something?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Shaking his head, he crosses to grab them and returns, placing them gently on her keyboard. “Oh. I always forget about those.”

“Have you been wearing your work pair?” 

She frowns thoughtfully, “I think I left them at the conference.”

“Mira!” She grins at his exasperated exclamation and he rolls his eyes. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I have a few ideas.” 

Her mischievous smiles almost wins him over, but he shakes his head at her. “Work first, sex later.”

“When’d you become so boring?” She pouts as she puts her glasses on and turns back to her screen. 

“You think I’m boring?” He stoops to plant a kiss right behind her ear, whispering “I’m offended.”

“How offended?” Her smile is downright devilish and he gives her a matching one.

“I’ll show you later.” 

\---

Mira’s positively squirming at dinner. Buccaneer eyes her, doubtfully, and glances at his roommates. Karley’s headphones are in, strains of classical symphony wafting from them, Neil is scribbling away on one of the many sheets of engineering paper that cover every flat surface in the apartment, and Miles is fiddling with his phone. He doesn’t fully connect the dots until he sees Miles check his phone again and Mira gives a sharp little inhale, covering it by shoving another forkful of spaghetti into her mouth.

They can’t be serious, can they? Surely he’s imagining the connection. But when Miles swipes, seemingly absently, at the phone resting on his lap, Mira shifts again, crossing and then uncrossing her legs. 

He stares down at his plate willing himself not to blush. It’s obviously not working, because Karley glances up from his spaghetti and frowns at him. “Are you alright, Buc?” He’s the sort of person who knows better than to shout over his music, but his question seems impossibly loud as three sets of eyes shift to him.

“Oh, I’m fine. Swallowed wrong.” 

If they suspect anything, no one comments and he takes a hurried gulp of water. At least, he thinks as he looks over, his face isn’t the only one getting red. Mira’s cheeks are dusted with pink and she bites her lip, as she tries a little too hard not to squirm again. 

Buccaneer wants to die. He isn’t sure what’s worse, that he’s caught his roommates in their erotic game or the fact that he  _ likes  _ what he’s seeing. It’s brutally unfair that  _ both  _ Mira and Miles are so fucking good-looking. 

He stares down at his spaghetti, but a movement of Miles’ hand on the screen of the phone draws his eye. He can’t help it, his eyes flick back to see what effect this change has on Mira. Her face scrunches and the fork in her hands start to shake. She drops it, her hand vanishing under the table. 

“Are you alright, love?” Miles sounds so sweetly innocent that if Buccaneer hadn’t just witnessed what he had, he’d honestly think he was concerned. 

Mira shoots him a look, takes a deep breath, and straightens. Her face becomes perfectly composed in a matter of seconds. Buccaneer stares, disbelieving. Miles reaches for his phone again, and she practically jumps out of her seat.

“I’ve got a lot of work to get back to.”

Miles smiles after her, finishes his food in a few quick bites and gets up, following her out, clapping Buccaneer on the shoulder as he goes. “Your turn for dish duty isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep telling myself there'll be a scene to justify the rating soon, but our lovebirds are a pair of teases, apparently. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! And, as always, please let me know what you think.


	4. In the Open

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, here's another chapter for you!
> 
> Warning: discussion of suicide! Stay safe and skip this chapter if you need to. Below is a link to a "masterlist" of helplines including the suicide hotline: http://creativesocialworker.tumblr.com/hotlines Just in case.

The decision to all go out together isn’t unanimous, but somehow Buccaneer finds himself in the back of Karley’s car trying not to smash Miles into Neil any harder than he already is. Karley’s driving, and Mira called shotgun so the backseat is unnecessarily crowded. To his surprise, Mira takes the keys from Karley as soon as they arrive and gets a brightly colored wristband that marks her as a designated driver. 

“Remind me again why it was so important we all be here?” Buccaneer asks Miles as the throng of people eager to chat up Mira pushes them to the edge of the bar.

“Kain’s friends are visiting from Central and Karley’s meeting them all for the first time.”

“And?”

“Karley always looks out for all of us, we gotta return the favor.”

“How so?”

“For one thing, he does background checks on all our new roommates. Also, your dates if you ask.”

“Really?”

Miles’ face is unreadable. “Court-ordered anger management?”

He can feel his face heating up. “And you still let me move in?”  

“You’re not the only person in the apartment with a record. It was a one-time thing and you got a glowing letter from the therapist.”

“Did you-?”

“No, Karley just runs the data. It’s not as invasive as it sounds. Your statistical chance of repeat offending was small enough we weren’t bothered.” 

“I see.” He stares out over the dance floor, not sure what to make of this development. 

Miles squeezes his arm unexpectedly, “I’m sorry if we invaded your privacy, it really wasn’t personal, we check out everyone.” He smiles when Buccaneer glances over, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad you moved in.”

He can’t help it, he laughs. “Well, I’m glad, too. And honestly, this means we won’t someday have to have an awkward talk about it. At least it’s in the open this way.”

Miles nods, but something across the way catches his eye. “Sweet Ishvalla! Is that  _ Roy Mustang _ ?” 

Sure enough, the famous dancer is sweeping into the bar. Karley’s date jumps up and down excitedly and practically drags him over. 

“Wait.  _ That’s  _ the friend Kain wanted him to meet?!”

Mustang glances around dramatically and makes his way to the bar and, _ Ishvala have mercy,  _ Mira who is perched on a bar stool sipping an orange juice. 

“Well, hello there, beautiful.”

Mira slurps her juice noisily and raises a brow at him. “You talking to me, pretty boy?” 

Mustang falters slightly, then smiles charmingly. “I sure am, baby.” 

“Tch!” Shaking her head, she turns back to the bar. “Another juice, please.”

“That’s all you have to say? ‘Tch!’?” 

“What were you expecting? Was I supposed to fall at your feet and thank you for deigning to talk to me?”

“I-” Karley is frantically mouthing something at her from behind his back, and Mustang frowns. “Well, usually people are a  _ little  _ more excited to be in the presence of a celebrity.”

“There’s a celebrity here? Where?” 

Miles groans quietly and facepalms. “Great. Now if I ever get the chance to meet him he’s just going to think of me as the boyfriend of the one woman in Amestris who doesn’t know who he is!” 

Mustang is sputtering stupidly and Mira hops off her barstool, juice in hand, and pats him on the shoulder. “Nice try, bud, next time don’t lead with ‘baby’ it’s infantilizing and makes you sound like a tool.” 

She makes her way over to them and kisses Miles who looks like he wants to fall through the floor. “That’s Roy Mustang!”

“Oh, you know him?”

“Mira! He’s only the most famous dancer on Dancing with the Stars!”

“You know I don’t watch that show, it conflicts with my MMA fights.”

“He’s friends with the guy Karley’s seeing!”

“I’m sorry, do you actually  _ want  _ me to flirt with a ‘celebrity’?” 

“No.” Miles looks a little petulant, “I kinda wanted to meet him is all.”  

“Well, his little posse is sitting down with Karley and his boy-toy now, you can go over and introduce yourself in a little bit.” She smiles up at him, “but, first, I want it to be clear that you’re  _ mine. _ ” 

Buccaneer finds a new corner of the bar to hide out in as Mira marks her territory. Sure, it’s kinda hot, but there’s no part of him that wants to awkwardly stand next to the pair as they makeout in public. It would just look creepy. 

A few more drinks in, their group has coalesced with Mustang’s group. The good news is they’re just as bizarre a mash-up of people. Neil is trying in vain to flirt with a woman named Riza who is steadfastly ignoring him, and Buccaneer eyes the group casually. Kain is definitely the cutest, but Mustang is pretty suave. 

“I mean, it’s no offense,” Kain is swaying a little in his seat, and Karley looks equally drunk, “but like I just don’t like girls. Boys are just so much cuter.”

“If you say so,” a scruffy blonde man with a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth shakes his head, “I just don’t get it. I’m all about the ladies.”

“You’re both missing out,” Buccaneer tells them, emboldened by a not insubstantial amount of alcohol in his system, “there’s so many more choices than just one gender.” 

“Oh, so you’re, um,” Kain hiccups, “what’s the word? With the dishes?”

“I think the word you’re looking for is pansexual,” Riza supplies, looking somewhere between amused and concerned.

“Yup, I’m pansexual and proud!” Buccaneer announces loudly.

Scruffy stares, “you’re attracted to  _ pans _ ?”

“Yes, dumbass. He’s attracted to  _ dishes.  _ It gets awkward when he’s in the kitchen.” Mira drawls, rolling her eyes. She shakes her head and glances at her watch, “well. It’s been-” she pauses nose crinkling disdainfully, “lovely to meet you all, but I need to get this lot home. Before they turn into pumpkins.” 

“It was nice to meet you,” Riza tells them, and then smiles apologetically. “I’ll educate this dummy-” she flicks the scruffy one in the forehead, “when he’s sober. So sorry about him, he’s not an asshole normally.”

Mira waves an acknowledgment, and begins rounding up her boys easily. Buccaneer practically has to carry Karley out to the car, and Neil and Miles loop their arms around each other, though it’s hard to tell who’s supporting whom. 

“I’m not nursing any of you through your hangovers in the morning,” Mira warns, irritably as Neil tries to start up a round of drinking songs. “Not even you, Miles!” She adds as he opens his mouth. “No matter how cute you are.”     

\---

Mira can’t sleep. She feels electric, and none of the pills and teas Miles offers her appeal. He always tries to stay up with her, inevitably falling asleep at uncomfortable angles, so she feigns sleep until his breathing levels out. She crawls out of the usually comforting cocoon of their bed and stands in the middle of the bedroom, feeling suffocated even out of bed. Miles will surely throw a fit, but she makes her way into the living room and eases open one of the only full-size windows in the apartment. The metal of the fire escape is cold beneath her bare feet and for a moment, she’s surprised, but she crawls the rest of the way out and up onto the roof.

To the south, the bright lights of North City beckon, but she turns her back on them to stare out at the looming shadow of the Briggs Mountain for which the suburb is named. She’s going to climb it someday, and stand on the very peak, looking out over Amestris. All her problems will be small and far beneath her feet. 

In the moonlight, everything seems so clear, so black and white. She sits and dangles her feet over the edge, watching them swing against the backdrop of the warehouse lot far below. Heavy footsteps disturb her peace and she cranes her neck to see Buccaneer coming toward her. 

“Mira?” He stops a good distance from the edge and stares at her. “What are you doing up here?”

“Sitting. Why are you up here?”

“You’re right above my bedroom, I heard you walking around.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“It’s alright.” He peers over the edge nervously. “Why don’t you come back here? We can talk.”

She frowns at him, “we can talk from here.”

“You don’t have to do this. Whatever’s going on, we can figure it out. There’s always another way.”

“I’m not going to jump, Buccaneer.” She smiles softly, and he thinks, a bit sadly. “That’s what you mean, don’t you?”

“You’re on the roof in the middle of the night, it’s not an extreme assumption!” He snaps more than he means to. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you.” She doesn’t respond and he sighs, lowering himself to sit, still a good distance from the edge. “I had this friend, a long time ago, and she committed suicide. I guess I’m just hyper-cautious now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She isn’t looking at him, is instead watching her now-blue toes as she kicks her feet back and forth, “were you very angry?”

“What?”

“It’s a bit selfish, isn’t it? Taking yourself out of your problems and leaving everyone who loves you behind to deal with your mess.” She sounds bitter, now, and he thinks he isn’t the only one of them to have experience with suicide. 

“I was angry for a long time. At myself, for not being there when she needed me, at the people who made her feel like she didn’t have any other choice. But at her? No. I could never be angry at someone who needed an out and felt they didn’t have any other choice. If I could go back in time and--” he broke off shaking his head. “After she died, a very wise man told me that when someone chooses to end their own life, they really die twice.” 

“The first time is when they decide they don’t have any choice but to die. The second time is just physical.” At his look of surprise, she smiles slightly. “My dad told me that once.” 

He frowns, because however impossible he knows it is, his brain is really having to work hard to convince him that the person in front of him is Mira, and not Olivier. But, she’s looking at him expectantly, and he clears his throat.  “Right, so how can you be angry with someone if they’ve already died once? If you have to play with blame, there are usually a lot of places to lay it, when someone decides they can’t keep living.”

“Maybe it isn’t anyone’s fault, though. I doubt very much that your friend blamed you.”

“That’s easy to say, but I was literally not there when she needed me.”

She shakes her head. “You can’t blame yourself.”

They sit in silence until the sun starts to peek up over the hills to the west and illuminate their quiet rooftop in palest pink. Buccaneer finally looks at Mira properly and realizes with a start she’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a tshirt with no robe, jacket, or anything to keep her warm. Her skin is pale, blue creeping across her fingers, toes, and lips. She’s trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“Mira!” He scrambles to his feet and holds out a hand to her. “Why didn’t you say anything?! We should have gone in ages ago!”

“I’m not cold.”

“Because you have frostbite! Come on, we should get you in to warm up.” She gets to her feet, stumbling a little on the too-cold appendages and he half-drags her back inside. He’s on the verge of suggesting she go take a warm shower, when Miles steps out of bathroom.

“Have you seen-” he stops abruptly, taking in the open window, Buccaneer still holding onto Mira’s arm and Mira, herself, turning blue and shaking. He mutters something in a language Buccaneer doesn’t recognize but guesses is Ishvalan, before sprinting across the room to pull Mira into his arms. Buccaneer lets go of her and Miles whispers “what the  _ hell  _ were you thinking? Have you been out there all night?” 

He drags her to the bathroom to warm up, shooting Buccaneer a dark look as he goes. Buccaneer frowns after them. It wasn’t as though he’d dragged Mira onto the roof. And besides, he hadn’t thought Miles a jealous one.

Once inside the bathroom with the door bolted, Miles wastes no time peeling off her clothes and nudging her into a lukewarm shower. He stands by the controls turning the heat up a little at a time as the color comes back to her.

“Why were you on the roof?”

She looks up from rubbing her feet to blink at him, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you went on the roof? Why? Was it Buccaneer’s idea?”

“No. I felt like I was suffocating, you know how much clearer my head is outside.”

“Mira, you should have woken me up. I would have gone with you.”

“I was fine. Besides, I accidentally woke Buccaneer up and he came out. I wasn’t alone for very long. You’re acting like you don’t trust me.” 

He sighs slowly, as she scowls at him. “It isn’t that, love, you know that. I just-” he shakes his head, “what if you had one of your episodes?”

Her gaze shifts to the tile floor, “I  _ didn’t. _ ” 

“Mira.” He steps forward, ignoring the sprays of water now covering his pajamas. “Hey, look at me.” She does, slowly, and he cups her face in his hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I was scared, but you’re right, I should have trusted you.” 

She slides into his embrace, wet limbs and hair destroying every chance of some part of him staying dry. As his arms come around her and his chin rests on her head, his fingers dance over the semicolon on her shoulder. “I know I scared you. I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll wake you up.” 

His whispered thank you against her hair is so quiet he doesn’t know if she hears it over the water, but he knows she understands.

She steps back, smiling. “Now, come on, didn’t anyone ever tell you you’re not supposed to shower with your clothes on?” 

He laughs and tosses the wet pajamas out onto the floor. Their peace doesn’t last long because soon Neil is pounding on the door. 

“If you two are in there any longer, I’m going to assume you’re doing unspeakable things to the  _ communal  _ showers and you’re going to have to have it replaced!” Miles groans and, with practiced precision, lobs an empty shampoo bottle hard enough to hit the lever and disengage the lock. Neil pushes it open just in time for them to hear Karley’s contribution from down the hall.

“Do you really think they haven’t done it in there before?” 

“That is  _ enough  _ about Mira’s and my personal business, thank you!” 

Karley’s snicker is louder than he thinks, “told ya.”

\---

_ If it makes a difference to anyone, and he knows it doesn’t, Buccaneer never meant to punch Frank Archer in his stupid face. But seeing him there, his sentence commuted, a date hanging off his arm, while Buccaneer’s lucky his arm isn’t hanging off, is entirely too much. When their eyes meet and the corner of Archer’s mouth turns up in a sneer, it feels like a sign from his ancestors. He pulls back, not sure at all how much strength his new arm will have, but the metal fist delivers a blow a thousand times more satisfying than he imagined. _

_ People would have understood if he had stopped there; anyone who knew their history, surely willing to turn a blind eye. But, he doesn’t stop, fists raining blows on a man still too startled to fight back. He’s pulled away faster than he would have liked, but still later than is probably healthy. _

_ His eyes are still blazing with fires of rage, his heart pounding in his heaving chest, when he’s cuffed and bundled into the back of a police car. It’s only sitting in an empty interrogation room that he calms down, head pressed to the cool of the metal table. They don’t make him wait as long as he expects, an officer coming quickly to take his statement. He’s opening his mouth to admit to the whole thing when the door opens. _

_ “Not another word, Mr. Buccaneer.” He raises his head to see Amestris’ most famous lawyer staring him down. “My client has nothing to say to you.” _

_ “Your client?” The officer looks from one to the other in bewilderment. They make an odd pair to be sure, Buccaneer in grungy clothes, hair unbraided and hanging loose, fist bloodied from his one-sided battle with Archer, and Philip Armstrong in an expensive suit, impressive beard combed and gelled to perfection, leather briefcase alone costing more than Buccaneer’s entire ensemble.  _

_ “That is correct.” Within a matter of minutes, the older man has posted bail and is guiding Buccaneer out of the police station by a vice-like grip on his flesh arm. He steers him into a waiting SUV, dark with the windows blacked out. Still bewildered, Buccaneer climbs in.  _

_ “So,” Armstrong asks, as he settles himself, waving the chauffeur to begin driving, “was it worth it?” Buccaneer shrugs. “I wish I could have seen it.” His head snaps up to stare at the normally placid man. “Don’t look so surprised. I would have done the same and more. He is the man who killed my daughter, after all.”     _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Don't forget the top notes has a link to a list of hotlines. 
> 
> The pansexual conversation was for my friend, who actually had to explain that it doesn't mean a sexual attraction to pans to someone. When I was younger, the first time I heard the term someone told me it meant being sexually attracted to literally anything and everything. Which is also not true. So, yeah. Don't be a dumbass. Google it if you're not sure! 
> 
> I realize that Mira and Miles spend a lot of time in the shower in this fic. I didn't really notice that at first, but when I was really depressed I would spend hours in the shower. So, yeah. 
> 
> Anyway, please do drop me a line and let me know what you think!


	5. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! I'm stress-writing instead of working on school, so don't mind the wobbliness of the plot. We are finally getting a scene to (barely) justify the rating! ;)
> 
> Trigger warning: there is a nightmare/flashback which references rape.

_ “Mira?” Miles is watching her cautiously, and she eyes him suspiciously over the top of yet another textbook. “My cousin is coming to stay with me and-” _

_ She snaps her textbook shut firmly, not looking at him, “I can find a place to stay, it’s no problem.”  _ __

_ “No, that’s not what I’m asking.” _

_ “It’s fine, Miles. You’ve put up with me long enough, you don’t need to make up a cousin to get rid of me.”  _

_ “No!” He reaches to grab her arm, and then stops himself, grateful that she hasn’t flinched. She didn’t tell him what happened to her, didn’t need to, he could guess. They’ve grown to be able to touch a little, she’s starved for it, a hand on the shoulder in passing, legs touching as they sit on the ratty sofa, but he never lays a hand on her. Ever. “He isn’t fake, I swear. I’m not asking you to leave, I was going to offer you my bed, so he can have the sofa.” _

_ Her face grows more suspicious,“where would you sleep?”  _

_ He’s fakely optimistic, “on the floor?”  _

_ “In the living room or…?” _

_ “There’s more room in the bedroom, but I can sleep in the living room. Do you need me to?” _

_ She’s silent for a long time, deliberating. “It’s your apartment, I’m not even paying rent, so really-” _

_ “That’s not what I’m asking. Mira, I love having you here. You make this tiny, terrible, little hole into an actual home. What I’m asking is do you feel safe with this? I’ll figure something else out, if not. The most important thing is that you feel safe.” _

_ “I-” she swallows, ducking her head, “yeah.”  _

_ A noise that he doesn’t quite know how to interpret escapes her. Frowning, he leans down to peer under the veil of her hair, “are you alright?” _

_ “Mmhm.” She nods, unconvincingly.  _

_ Ever so carefully, he gently sweeps her hair out of her eyes. “Mira? Are you crying?” _

_ “No,” she whispers, sniffling.  _

_ “Why are you crying? Did I say something?” He nearly topples off the sofa when she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and sobbing into his shoulder. He sits for a moment, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, before he dares to rest them, softly, on her back. As she calms, hiccupping for air, he cautiously rubs her back. “Sweetheart,” he doesn’t know where he got the nerve to call her that, but he does, “are you alright?”  _

_ “No, but I will be.”  _

_ “What can I do?”  _

_ “Just stay. Please, just stay.”      _

_ He holds her for hours, as she presses herself into him forcefully. Gradually, he grows comfortable tightening his hold on her, trying to comfort her as she seeks the warmth of his embrace. When he finally rises to go to bed, she follows. He makes himself as small as possible, trying to give her room in the narrow bed, and she lets her back rest against his, their feet tangling under the covers. She never sleeps on the sofa again.    _

\---

_It starts in the same way, every time. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop her feet from making their way up the stairs, the thick carpet muffling her steps. She knows better, she does, but the alcohol is numbing her senses and quieting the voice in her head that tells her not to. Her hand trails over the wall, which is cold beneath her fingertips._

Miles is sleeping peacefully beside her, not yet aware of her troubled sleep.

_She knows the hand is coming even before it reaches out and wraps around her wrist. She wants to fight, to run away, but she hadn’t at the time, so she’s helpless to the draw of the sharp smile and the fingers that reach up to curl in her hair. The smile will grow sharper, and those fingers won’t be so gentle, and she doesn’t want to relive it. Not again._

She twists uncomfortably, distress making itself apparent in heavy breathing, sweat soaking through her pajamas.

_The colors are too bright, sickeningly so, and sounds are fading in and out, popping her ears as flashes of light make her head spin. Not again. There’s a thumb pressed into the corner of her mouth, holding it open as alcohol burns its way over her tongue and down her throat. Not again._

Her body is writhing, limbs flailing, trying to wake her without succeeding.  

_She can’t relive this. Notagainnotagainnotagain…_

“Mira, hey,” there’s a gentle voice in her ear, “hey, sweetie. You need to wake up now.” Fingers run through her hair, a hand gently nudging her shoulder. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Come on, sweetie, wake up.”

Her eyes fly open and she’s shaking, her hair and pajamas sticking to her with sweat. Tears are running down her cheeks, and she stares soundlessly at the ceiling. Miles fingers continue stroking her face and head, untangling her now-wild hair. He keeps his touches light and _safe_ , limited to where he knows she’s comfortable.

“It hasn’t been this bad in a long time, huh?” He isn’t looking for an answer, just observing in quiet concern.

She swallows thickly, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, love.”

“What time is it?”

“Don’t worry about the time.”

“Miles.”

He sighs quietly and rolls over to check the little clock on his bedside table. “It’s almost three.”

“I’m-”

“You don’t need to apologize again, love.” He rolls back to cup her face in his hands, “are you alright?”

“Right now? I don’t know.” She draws a deep breath, “but I will be.”

“Good.” He kisses her forehead. “What can I do?”

“Just stay.”

“Always.” He rubs her shoulder gently, and moves to drape an arm over her, watching carefully for any signs of discomfort, but she rolls her head to nestle into him. “Do you want to put on some dry pajamas?” She shakes her head against him, and he sighs. “Come on, love, I’ll even get them out for you. If you wear these soaked ones all night, you’ll get sick.”

She groans, climbing out of bed, peeling off the sweaty pajamas, and pulling clean ones on, before climbing back into bed to nestle into his side again. His arms come back around her, pulling her close and resuming his tender stroking of her hair. She takes a deep breath, pressing into him as tight as she can. He tightens his hold slightly in response, ensuring she feels safe and protected without making her feel trapped.

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night.

\---

The kitchen table is covered in sketches and prototypes. Mira, in sweatpants and a shirt that is almost certainly Miles’, her hair in a loose bun and glasses perched on her nose, is going back and forth between sketches and prototypes, all the while balancing a laptop on her arm and talking to someone on the other end of a Skype call.

Buccaneer blinks blearily, “Does she know it’s Saturday?”

“Does she know it’s five in the morning?” Neil counters, groaning and rubbing his eyes.

Karley laughs and crosses the kitchen to wave at the laptop screen. “Hi, Henschel! How’s it going?”

“Ignore him,” Mira instructs, pushing Karley out of the frame with a device of uncertain function, “focus. How did the latest model perform in stress tests?”

Henschel chooses to ignore Mira instead, “other than the fact it’s five in the bloody morning and I’m trying not to wake my wife or children? It’s going great.”

“Stress tests, Henschel!”

“Ugh, you’re such a slave driver! Look, it wasn’t great. I’m happy to email you the data, but the design isn’t ready to go out.”

“It’s supposed to be ready by next week.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, boss. We’ve been working our asses off, it just isn’t ready.”

“What do you need to make it ready?”

“Technology that doesn’t exist?” Henschel sighs, “if I had answers for you, I’d have a functional prototype.”

“You do understand that we’re not designing an entire system ourselves, right? We’re taking existing technology and making it smaller. Cuter.”

“There’s a limit to the amount of bulk I can reduce before it stops being able to support its own weight! The problem here is durability, the equipment gives out way too quickly to be safe!”

  Mira groans and drops the prototype she’s been working with. “Alright, email that data with a summary, and I’ll start ass-kissing.”

Henschel snorts. “With all due respect, boss, you don’t know the first thing about ass-kissing.”

“Oh, shut up!” She closes the laptop without another word, and leans on the table surveying her options in frustration.

“Does she always talk to her employees like that?” Buccaneer whispers to Neil, but not as quietly as he thinks.

Mira fixes him with a steely glare. “Only Henschel. He knows what I mean.” He tries to smile innocently, and she shakes her head, turning back to her work with a frown.

“When did you get up?”

“Get up?” She blinks at him, “what time is it?”

“Five in the morning. Did you go to bed at all?”

“No, I forgot.”

“How do you forget to sleep?!”

She shrugs, “it happens. At least now I know why I feel so sluggish. Is anyone making coffee?”

“I think Neil is,” he frowns at her, “but shouldn’t you sleep instead of having caffeine?”

“Sleep is for the weak!”

In spite of her attitude about it, her fatigue begins to show, and by the time Karley has a pancake breakfast ready she’s resting her head on the table, staring blankly at nothing. Miles finally emerges from their room, stretching and yawning.

“Why are you all up so early?” Three sets of fingers point accusingly at Mira and he frowns. “Were you up all night?”

“Apparently.”

He sighs and comes behind her to rub her shoulders. “Well, why don’t you have some breakfast and then take a nap?”

“I have so much to-”

“Work can wait a few hours.”

“Tch!” She scowls at him, but snatches up the pancakes Karley offers and sullenly begins eating. Miles keeps a hand on her back until they’ve both eaten, no one in the mood for chit-chat after their early start, and then gently pulls her to her feet and steers her to their bedroom.

Once safely enclosed in the sanctuary of their room, he pulls her into his arms and begins a gentle chastisement. “Love, you need to at least try to sleep every night. You’ll make yourself sick, and you know your episodes are always worse if you haven’t slept.”

“I didn’t mean to stay up _all_ night.”

“I know.” He kisses her forehead and tugs on the hairband holding her bun up. “Now, come on, it’s time to sleep.” She yawns, stepping back and he chuckles, “why are you wearing my shirt? I know for a fact you have a drawer full of your own.”

She shrugs, “yours are comfier.” She glances down and then smiles up at him, “do you want it back?” She can see him warring with himself, between the desire to tell her to go to sleep and the desire to take her up on her implied offer and her smile broadens. She pulls the shirt up and off, revealing a lace bra she knows he can’t resist.

He shakes his head at her, but peels off his own shirt and nudges her toward the bed. His fingers hook in the waistband of her sweatpants and he tugs her panties off with them, before gently pushing her back onto the bed. He kneels before her and she slides her legs over his shoulders without hesitation. His hands dance over her skin, and he presses her left leg up to her chest to kiss the tattooed ivy on the underside, experience guiding him to the scars the ink hides.

She grows impatient, and pushes back. He laughs as her leg resettles on her shoulder and dips his head between her thighs. He kisses around where she wants him most, before sliding a finger along glistening folds. Her sharp inhale is everything and he follows the motion with his tongue. She writhes in a way he loves, and her heel hits his back sharply. Her fingers bunch in the sheets as his slide into her. He knows her like he knows himself, and it isn’t long before he has her gasping through her release.

She laughs shakily as he repositions her properly on the bed, kicks of his pants, and clambers up next to her. She starts to move, but whatever her intention he cuts her off by pulling her on top of himself. She kisses him slowly, lingering in the space it takes to breathe. He reaches up to unclasp her bra, but she catches his hands and pushes them against the mattress above his head. He smiles against her lips as she kisses him one more time, before she sits up and undoes the bra herself. She lets it fall slowly, smirking as he bites his lip.

He wants to grab her, to feel her silky curves beneath his hands, but she’s made her desire clear and he grabs the brass headboard to force himself to keep his hands down. She takes her time, lips burning like brands down his torso. When she reaches her goal, she takes him in her mouth only very briefly, before pulling off and winking at him. She repositions herself, one hand steadying him, and slides down onto him.

He’d never considered himself the type of person to hand over control so easily, but Mira is, and always has been, unique. She’s a force of nature, sometimes wild and fierce like the winter, others soft and persistent like the spring thaw. He loves her, heart and soul, and her quirks, oddities, and flaws, are just parts of her. The whole of her is more than that and more than worth it.     

She breathes deeply as she adjusts and then rocks her hips earning a pleased moan and an eager thrust. They move together until her fatigue catches up to her, and she slows, resting against his chest. He releases the headboard and catches her hips, helping her and then, flipping them when she makes no complaints. She’s sleepy and it takes time to bring her to edge again, but he holds out until she’s moaning and bucking against him, a hand slips between them to massage her clit and then she’s tumbling over and he lets go.   

He has the good sense not to fall on top of her, rolling to lay beside her, chest heaving. They’re both sweaty, but she burrows into his side, and he pulls her in closer, kissing her forehead. He’s wide awake, but content to lay beside her as she drifts into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I'm tired, but this easier than school so here we are! Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Please do let me know what you think! :)


	6. Faultless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies. This chapter is basically the hell-chapter, where everything sucks. So sorry about that, but if you hang in there, fluff and roommate relationship development will be coming soon(ish).
> 
> Trigger warning: discussion of rape. This is probably the most intense/frank discussion that this fic will include.

Buccaneer’s arm is in the best shape it’s been in years. Maintenance from Neil comes at the price of letting the prosthetics engineer tinker. The changes are usually small, and Buccaneer hasn’t had any complaints. Neil mutters to himself as he works and Buccaneer kills time, watching shows and playing on his phone lefthanded. 

“Hmm,” he’s prodding around the plating on Buccaneer’s shoulder, “do you mind if I ask how you lost your arm?”

He hesitates a moment before responding, “motorcycle accident.” 

“Really?” Neil glances up at him in surprise, “how long ago was this?” 

“It’s been almost a decade, now.” 

“Damn.” He shakes his head, “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Still,” he smiles sympathetically before bowing his head over the arm, “sorry to bring it up. I thought this plating was newer than that.”

“I had the plating replaced a few years ago.”

“Completely replaced?” Neil whistles, “how much did that cost you?”

Buccaneer shrugs, uncomfortable, and Neil grabs his shoulder to prevent him jostling the tech, “I got a good bit of money after the accident.”

“Did you get hit by someone, then?”

Neil’s perhaps not the most tactful, but he’s honest and sincere so Buccaneer answers honestly. “No, I hit black ice and ran myself off the road.” He makes a questioning noise, and Buccaneer continues, “I was speeding because my friend was in danger and she asked me to come and get her. Her parents felt guilty and payed for the prosthetics.” They’ve payed for more than that, but he doesn’t care to get into it.

“Was your friend alright?” 

Buccaneer shakes his head, “she died while I was in the hospital.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry.” 

Buccaneer waves away his apology, the curiosity is normal and his story is unusual. People always grow quiet when he tells them that he had failed to even save her, losing his arm for nothing. 

Neil clears his throat, “Look, man, I’m no good with this emotional stuff, but if you ever need to talk-”

“I appreciate it, but I’m alright.”

He nods, looking relieved, and returns his focus to the prosthetic. Buccaneer glances at the remote, but none of his usual choices are on right now, and channel surfing doesn’t appeal. He turns to his phone, and a tired restlessness sets in. Normally, he’d get up and go out, wandering around until he tires, but with Neil fiddling with his arm he’s stuck in place. He knows better, but he opens the “O” folder. He shouldn’t keep it on all his devices, but they’re synced and it sits there, an itch he can’t ever scratch.

He flips past that first photo of her, the one that had been on her obituary, and scrolls through equally familiar shots. The two of them at prom--they’d gone strictly as friends--in a classically cheesy pose, but reversed so that her arms were around him, her head poking around the side as she was far too short to peer over his shoulder. Her at the Year 7 science fair, hiding her excitement over first place with a bored expression. A candid shot that he had snapped of her when they’d been studying once, one of her with her little brother, already taller than her, another of her perched on his brand new motorcycle-

“Is that her?” 

He’d almost forgotten about Neil and he gives a guilty start. “Yeah. Her name was Olivier.” 

“She looks nice.” 

“She was,” he smiles a little to himself, shaking his head, “vicious as a viper when she was angry, though. Always tried to act older than she was, thought she knew everything.” 

“At that age didn’t we all?” Neil snaps the last open panel shut and pats his shoulder, “there you are. Give it a go?” 

Buccaneer nods and moves the arm through mobility tests almost mindlessly.  _ At that age.  _ Death lends itself a certain frozen immortality and he forgets it applies only to her, that he’s kept aging without her. 

_ \--- _

_ The mausoleum is quiet as, well, a grave. His hands--hand, he corrects himself, flinching--trembles, making the flowers, wilted from his death grip on them, shake. He’s been out of the hospital for a while, but he hasn’t had the guts to come here before. He pushes open the heavy wooden door, taking a deep breath as he takes in the white marble awash in sunlight from the windows at the back. A statuesque woman is sitting, quite still, on the bench against the wall and he steps back, guiltily.  _

_ “I’m sorry, I didn’t know-” _

_ She turns toward him, face at first surprised and then gentle. “Carlisle, I’m glad to see you. Come, sit.” She pats the stone seat beside her and he makes his way over, pausing to lay his now-damaged and somewhat pitiful bouquet. They sit side by side in silence, both staring at the memorial wreath laid out on the table, or rather past it to the beautifully engraved stone that marked Olivier’s tomb.  _

_ “She was never meant to rest here.” _

_ It takes him a moment to comprehend what was said and he frowns, “sorry, what?” _

_ “We always wanted her to grow up and get married. It’s an odd thing to consider, but this is the Armstrong family mausoleum, she was supposed to have a different name, a different place to rest.”  _

_ “I’m so sorry,” the words are choked out around the lump in his throat, “I am so, so sorry.”  _

_ “It isn’t your fault.” She turns to him with a look, that even on her grief-stricken face, is as sharp and piercing as any her daughter ever gave. “You need to understand that.” _

_ He shakes his head, “if I could have been there-” _

_ “Look at me, child, it isn’t your fault.”  _

_ He can’t look at her. “You don’t understand. I was-” he swallows, not sure if he can bury the guilt any longer, or if voicing it would only feel worse, “we had a fight. Before the party. We weren’t even speaking and then she-” he breaks, letting out a broken sob. To his surprise, Olivier’s mother wraps her arms around him. _

_ “She didn’t blame you, Carlisle. She isn’t angry at you. She’s at peace now,” she gives him a tight squeeze, and he can hear her choking on her own tears, “she isn’t angry at you, I promise.”  _

\---

Buccaneer lifts his hand to rap on Karley’s door and freezes for a moment, hand inches from the wooden surface, before shaking his head and trying again. He feels prickles of anxiety as familiar as it is frustrating. His fist finally lands on the door. He only manages once, but it seems to be enough.

“Come in,” Karley calls and Buccaneer pushes the door open. The room is a web of old radio equipment and wires, Karley perched on the bed, laptop on his lap and headphones on. He smiles up at Buccaneer and pulls them off. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a favor to ask-” Buccaneer begins, excuses all lined up, but Karley’s smile is both kind and amused as he nods. 

“What’s the name?” 

“How did you-?”

“I know Miles told you about my, ah, particular skill set.” 

“Not much, just that you can check up on people?” 

“Sure can. So, the name?” 

“Frank Archer.” His stomach clenches as he tries to play the name off casually, like it isn’t bitter as bile on his tongue.

Karley nods as he begins typing, “new date?” 

“No!” He sounds angrier than he means and he clear his throat, “just someone from my past.” 

The younger man’s brows shoot up at whatever comes across his screen. “You’re checking up on the man you beat the crap out of?” At Buccaneer’s nod, he frowns slightly, fingers hovering above the keyboard, “just promise me this isn’t so you can settle unfinished business.”   

“It’s nothing like that,” Buccaneer assures, though it is highly tempting, “you know that feeling when you know there’s a spider in the room, but you lose sight of it? It’s like that.”

Karley nods and returns to his laptop. “Have a seat, if you want, this is sometimes a slow process.” 

The only open space to sit is on the bed, so Buccaneer seats himself beside the other man and glances over at the screen. It’s mostly what looks to him like meaningless strings of letters and numbers, but Karley is fixated. To distract himself, Buccaneer looks around the room and finds the only organized thing is a bookshelf full of music. Vinyl, CDs, cassette tapes, it doesn’t seem to matter, and the genres are equally mixed: classical is shelved beside techno which is touching albums of indie rock. 

“Okay, so what do you want to know?”

Buccaneer turns his focus back to his roommate, “what is there?” 

“He has an impressively long list of accusations that have been brought against him, but he’s only ever been convicted of one, which was-” he pauses, clicking on something, and his eyebrows go up again, “a rape charge. Ridiculously short sentence, though. It says here his victim never testified because-”

“Right. I know about that one.” He bites his cheek, reminding himself not to lash out at Karley. “What else has been accused of?” 

Karley’s face is unreadable, “is that why you attacked him? You knew the victim?” Buccaneer shoots him a look and he nods. “Right. Um, looks like he was involved in a fraternity scandal.” He bites his lip, skimming through the information in front of him, “that’s  _ sick _ .”

“What?”

“To get in, the pledges had to film themselves having sex with girls, without their knowledge.” Buccaneer’s fists clench, along with his heart, and his chest tightens, but he nods, this isn’t news to him. Karley looks nauseated. “They didn’t get him on anything more than possession of the videos, and it was all swept under the rug, even though-”

“The-” he can’t say it, “thing he  _ was  _ convicted of was his submission.”  

Karley nods, “right. But supposedly, they couldn’t actually prove that’s what they brothers were doing, because they all had alibis for each other. His video was filmed by a third party so they argued he could have been unaware he was being filmed.” 

“A third party?” Buccaneer stares at him. He’d always thought it had been a hidden camera, the fact that there had been another person there, complicit in the assault was like a bucket of ice water to the face.

His brow is furrowed more intensely than Buccaneer has ever seen. “It says here the camera angles and the slight wobble give it away. Could be his lawyer making it up, though; the only way I know of to be sure is to watch the video and there is no way in hell I am doing that.”

“Is there any evidence as to who-?”

“No, it was a theory the lawyer put out to discredit the charges. It worked, but no one ever investigated further.” He sits for a moment, fingers tapping against the edges of his laptop. “Do you want me to?”

“What?”

“See if I can figure out who shot the video.”

“Can you do that without watching it?” 

“I was thinking I could try to trace it to where it was originally uploaded and see if I can narrow it down from there. If it was from a public computer, or Archer’s we might be out of luck. But we can try.” 

“You sure?” Just thinking about it feels him with a mixture of rage and nausea. It seems cruel to ask Karley to spend time on the subject. “It’s like a big undertaking for someone you never knew.”

“When I realized just how much I could do with computers, good or bad, I promised myself that if I could ever help someone, I would. It would be an honor to get some resolution for you and your friend.”

“Thank you.” If Buccaneer is a little choked up, neither of them call attention to it. He clears his throat. “So, Archer. Where is he now?” 

“South City, he’s got a cushy job, too. He’s looking for a promotion, though, and it isn’t going as smoothly as he hoped.” Karley runs his fingers through his hair for a minute before he begins typing at lightning speeds.

“What are you doing?”

“His record is pretty well buried, I’m just making sure it winds up in the hands of HR.” 

“Even if you email it to them, you’re an outside source, and it will probably wind up in their spam filter.” Not that he’s ever tried. 

Karley looks at him the way you look at an especially dumb dog who’s nonetheless cute, “that’s why I’m emailing them from his account.”

“You can do that?”

He snorts, “ _ please,  _ a ten year old could do that. It’s a simple algorithm.”

“A ten year old, huh?” 

“Sure. They don’t even send you to juvie at that age.”

He knows he shouldn’t ask, but he does. “Were you ever in juvie?” 

The younger man glances up and grins. “A cute kid like me? I wouldn’t last two day. House arrest and a ridiculously long probation with no internet access? If they didn’t have a program to turn rebel hackers like myself into internet security specialists, I’d probably still have ankle jewelry.”

“What the hell did you even do?” 

Karley just smiles charmingly in response. 

\---

_ “Stop it.”  _

_ Miles starts a little and realizes he’s been zoning out instead of reading. “Stop what?” _

_ “Staring at me.” _

_ “I wasn’t-” _

_ Mira snorts, “oh please. Like I don’t know what you want.” He frowns at her, not sure how to respond. He has no intentions toward her, however much he may be harboring a little flame of affection, warm and glowing in the center of his chest, and she knows this. “Tch!” She gets up and crosses the few feet between the sofa and the miniscule hallway, vanishing into their bedroom. _

_ He remains on the sofa, book open on his lap, but unread, and deliberates. There isn’t another way out of the bedroom; following might make her feel trapped. On the other hand, leaving her alone could end badly. Hoping he’s made the right choice, he gets up and pads down the hall to their bedroom. The door swings open when he moves to knock, so she was at least not angry or frightened enough to latch it. _

_ She’s sitting on the bed, her legs tucked under herself and her back to him. “I know what you want,” she says lowly, twisting a little to look at him over her shoulder, “because it’s what  _ I  _ want.”     _

_ He takes a moment to process this statement. “Mira-” _

_ “Don’t say anything, just listen; there’s something I have to tell you.” She’s staring at her hands. “I’m damaged-” _

_ He tries again, “no, you’re not-” _

_ “Just let me talk.” He falls silent, biting his lip. “I know what you think I mean, and that isn’t-” she pauses, taking a deep breath, collecting herself, “I mean, you’re not wrong. But it isn’t just that. There’s something, well, I’d best just show you.”  _

_ Miles inhales sharply, as she pulls her (his, she’s a clothing thief unlike anyone he’s ever known) oversized sweater up and off. Angry red lines and puckers of silvery-white scar tissue tangle across the left side of her torso, from her shoulder down to the waistband of her leggings, and probably further.  _

_ “Do they hurt you?” He moves from his place leaning against the doorframe to stand beside the bed.  _

_ “Not anymore.”  _

_ “Then, they really don’t matter to me.” _

_ “They matter to me.” _

_ He sits slowly, carefully, behind her on the bed, fingers brushing over the bare skin of her back. She shivers, but doesn’t move away. “Do you want to tell me about it? You don’t have to.” _

_ “I’m going to put my shirt back on first.” She does so and then leans back against him, eyes closing. “What do you want to know?”  _

_ He dares to slip an arm around her, keeping it loose and unrestraining, “whatever you want to tell me, love. It’s your story, you don’t owe me any of it.”  _

_ She nods, eyes still closed. “There was a party and I was drunk, I should have known better, maybe I deserved-” _

_ Talking over people isn’t usually his style, but he can’t help it. “No, you didn’t. The most anyone deserves from drinking too much is a hangover. Nothing that happened to you was your fault.”  _

_ “It feels like my fault.” Tears are slipping from her closed eyelids, and rolling down her cheeks. He swipes at them with his thumb, making soothing noises as he does. “My best friend told me not to go, and I was mad at him, so I went. I don’t even like parties!” She takes a shuddering breath, “I don’t know what I did to make him pick me. I’ve tried and tried to figure it out. Was it my dress? My makeup? Some vibe I give off?”  _

_ “Oh, Mira. It’s nothing you did; it isn’t your fault.” _

_ “There has to be something!” He wants to fold her in a crushing embrace and hold onto her forever, but he doesn’t know what will make it worse. “If there’s nothing, then there’s nothing I can do to stop it from happening again.” He can’t find a kleenex, so he grabs the softest blanket he has and blots her face with it. “I tried to get away, I really did, but he forced me to drink more and everything was so wobbly. I called for help, but no one came. He caught me and when he pushed me down, there was broken glass on the floor. And then-” she chokes, “and then-” _

_ “It’s alright, love. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” She sobs and he kisses the top of her head, rocking her slightly in his arms. “I’m here, I’m here. You’re safe now. I have you; You’re safe.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it! Thanks for reading. 
> 
> I tried to write this in a respectful and honest way, with the focus on the effects, rather than the act. Trauma is a tricky thing to write, so I hope I've managed the balance.
> 
> As always, I love to hear your feedback!


	7. A Sticky Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, this should be a less hell-ish chapter for you.
> 
> Happy reading!

_ 3:31 AM  _ it’s getting bad again

_ 3:32 AM  _ Bad how?

_ 3:32 AM  _ just bad

_ 3:35 AM  _ Okay. I can be there in two days.

_ 3:35 AM  _ Will you be okay until then?

_ 3:36 AM  _ i can try

_ 3:37 AM  _ Okay. Hang in there, kiddo. 

\---

“You came back!” Paninya stares at him, reaction somewhere between excited and reproachful. “I thought you were never coming back!”

Buccaneer smiles sheepishly, “I know, it took me a while. I’m sorry.” He hesitates, “but I brought you something.” He holds out his gift and she snatches it from his grasp, ripping the tissue out of the bag, and pulling out the custom teddy bear he’d had made. She stares at it, wordlessly, running her hands over the prosthetic legs. 

“I-” she sounds overwhelmed, her big eyes watery. 

“It’s okay.” He smiles encouragingly at her, “I know.”

She pulls the bear to her chest and turns away. Buccaneer takes the hint, muttering an excuse about checking in with Miles and heading out.

Dominic follows him into the hall. “Look, I want to say-” he pauses clearing his throat, “I’m not good at this emotional stuff. I usually stick with the tough love approach. Heaven knows, my son says I need to be gentler with Paninya-”

“Paninya isn’t your daughter?” He shouldn’t be surprised, Dominic is closer to the age of her grandfather, and there isn’t much resemblance between them.

Dominic shakes his head, “I took her in after her parents died--they were friends of mine--and eventually the state let me adopt her.”

“So she is your daughter.”

“What?”

“You adopted her; she’s your daughter.”

“I don’t want her to think I’m trying to replace her parents.”

“She’s a smart kid, Sir. With all due respect, she needs you to be a parent more than an army surgeon just now.”

“How did you-?”

“My biological father was in the army. Not nearly as much of a dad to me as my step-dad was.” Dominic nods and glances over his shoulder to Paninya’s room. “Go on, she needs you just now.” 

He doesn’t wait around to watch Dominic head back into the room, instead making his way to where Miles is reading a picture book about a friendly crocodile to the children. He’d been nervous about bringing the gift, but the main reason he’d stayed away so long was the fact that hospitals still turn his stomach. 

After his accident he’d spent far too long in hospitals, first Central City’s public hospital and then a private facility the Armstrongs had paid for during his rehabilitation. He’d had the twenty-four hour care he needed while his mother, stepfather, and sister had all been able to keep working. It was hard for them all, but for his mother in particular. Her people, a small nomadic tribe located in a contested region between Drachma and Amestris that had ultimately been absorbed by the latter hadn’t believed in hospitals, and many of their elders had died in them at the hands of Amestrian “care.” 

He hadn’t been in a place to care, either way. He’d spent weeks with an IV of painkillers in his remaining arm at all times, too foggy and disoriented to know up from down. He’d even hallucinated angels of death coming to him. He’d thought he’d spoken with Olivier, but when he’d asked his mother about it she had sobbed something incomprehensible about spirits of death. It had taken his stepfather gently explaining, two or three times because of the medications, that Olivier had passed for him to understand.

“I think that’s all the stories I have for today,” Miles snaps the book shut, startling Buccaneer out of his thoughts. “If Mr. Buccaneer wants to help me, we have some things to hand out today, though!” 

Buccaneer smiles apologetically and begins digging through the boxes they’ve brought, these gifts more generic, but he finally understands why two people with jobs as solid as Mira’s and Miles’ need to live in a rundown loft with three other roommates. They spare no expense on new toys, books, and games for the children, visiting two or three times a month and it adds up to quite a hefty bill.  

He had questioned Miles about it only once, and been met with that dazzling smile and a cheerful, “it’s worth it”. Watching the children’s faces light with joy as they took their gifts, and the teary smiles of their parents, so overwhelmed by bills they couldn’t even think of buying new toys for their children, he could understand why. 

Miles taps his shoulder, “ready to go find Mira?” 

“Um, yeah, I guess.” He shrugs uncomfortably. Mira’s on the adolescent ward today, and that brings up more painful memories that he yearns to suppress. 

“I can go by myself, you can wait in the lobby if you’d prefer.”

He hesitates, “no, it’s okay. I want to go.” 

Miles nods and squeezes his arm, “if you change your mind you can turn back at any point and no one would blame you.” 

The elevator ride up is quiet, but not awkward, Miles absently humming along to the elevator’s music. Buccaneer watches the doors slide open apprehensively. It isn’t all that different up here, the smells are the same, but the decor is more toned down, no bright animal murals or crayon-shaped furniture. 

They find Mira standing in a hallway, talking quietly to a woman in a rumpled cardigan that looks like she hasn’t slept in days. Miles puts up an arm, and they wait for several minutes while the two women talk, Mira nodding sympathetically and rubbing the woman’s arm soothingly. After a few minutes, she reaches into her purse and produces a ziploc bag of miniature toiletries and travel sized brushes. The woman bursts into tears as she takes the gift and Mira envelopes her in a gentle hug. 

“Everything alright?” Miles asks quietly when she makes her way over, the woman disappearing into a nearby room.

Mira nods, “her son is in a coma, and she hasn’t left his side in days. I was encouraging her to rest and take care of herself, too.” 

“Mmh,” Miles puts an arm around her shoulder as the elevator doors shut, “that’s some good advice, love.”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” there’s no ire in her voice as she leans into him and he kisses her cheek. 

Buccaneer clears his throat awkwardly and Miles chuckles, shooting him a slightly apologetic glance. “Are you doing alright?”

“Huh?”

The look on the other man’s face is entirely too knowing, “I know it’s hard for you to be here, but we really appreciate it. More importantly so do the kids and their families.” 

He nods, not sure what to say, and they leave in silence.

\---

“Mira!” Patricia practically jumps out of her seat to put an arm around her and they kiss each other’s cheeks, before settling down at the cafe table. “I don’t suppose you’ve decided to give up on men, yet?”

Mira smiles, shaking her head as she picks up the hot cocoa with extra whip cream and chocolate sprinkles that her best friend had knowingly ordered for her. “Not as such, but you know Miles and I have always said we’re open to a third.”

“Pshaw!” Patricia shakes her head, sipping her bitter coffee without a wince, “Miles is a sweetie, and as men go, kinda cute, but I’m a girl’s girl.”

“Mhm.” Mira sips her cocoa, glancing away.

Her friend’s eyes narrow under her oversize glasses. “You have a third?!”

“No!” She shakes her head, but Patricia leans in and she sighs. “There’s someone Miles likes.”

Patricia frowns, “but you don’t?” 

“It’s not, well, it’s complicated.”

“Is he pressuring you?” 

“No, of course not!” Mira shakes her head emphatically, “you know he’d rather cut out his own tongue than say anything. It’s just, he always goes so far out of his way to take care of me and I hate to make him sacrifice anymore than he has to.”

“Oh, hon, he does  _ not  _ view it as a sacrifice. He looks at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.” 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but I’m not the one having an internal war because I think my partner wants something and we both want to be martyrs.”

“Oh shut up.”

“Bitch, you love me.”

“Tch!”     

Patricia leans forward, swiping a finger’s worth of whipped cream off the cocoa. “In the wonderful world of Mira Imageo, what does ‘complicated’ mean?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Answering a question with a question is a classic avoidance strategy, my dear.”

“You’re avoiding my question,” Mira retorts coolly. 

“You’re the most unusual person I have ever met--and that is a compliment, so don’t make that face at me--and I haven’t the faintest idea what passes as complicated in that wonderfully strange brain of yours.”

“He’s a sweet guy, he really is, but-” she pauses chewing her lip thoughtfully, “well, for one thing, I don’t think he likes me.”

Patricia’s brow furrows, “well, that is a problem. But he likes Miles?”

“I’m pretty sure, but he’s not the type to make himself obvious when Miles is in a committed relationship, and of course Miles won’t test the waters without my go ahead, which he won’t even ask for.”

“You’re not one to hold back, why haven’t you pushed him to it? You know he would pull back if it turns out this guy doesn’t like you.”

“I-” Mira sighs, rubbing her forehead, “there’s something I never told Miles and at first I didn’t think it would be a problem, and then I was shocked, and now?” She shrugs. “It takes a lot to piss him off, but this might just be enough.”

“You know you could straight up murder someone and he’d help you hide the body, right? I don’t think a little thing like a lie of omission would be more than a hiccup in your relationship.”

“It’s more than that, Pat, it’s-”

“Complicated?” Patricia chuckles at Mira’s nod then, sensing her downturn in mood, changes the topic. “So, when are you coming down to my parlor to get more ink?”

“I have enough for now, you know that.”

“You don’t want an awesome  _ full _ sleeve like mine?” 

“Is that a subtle hint that you added more to it?”

“I did, want to see?” Without waiting for an answer she begins rolling up her sleeves and Mira leans in to admire the fresh designs. 

“Oh, this is nice.” She points, careful to not touch the sensitive skin. “Your own design, of course?”

“Of course,” Patricia grins, “I got Bobby to do the work, but I watched him the whole time.”

“He’s that kid you hired last April, right?”

“Yup. He’s been doing really well.”

“Obviously, if you let him get near your arm with a tattoo gun.” 

“Mmh. Speaking of employees how’s Henschel treating you these days?”

“I was having such a lovely day until you mentioned him.”    

“You’re so mean!”

Mira chuckles, “he’s actually been working very hard. He questions what feels like every decision I ever make, but he’s right more often than I care to admit.”  

“Oh, honey, it’s hard being a mature adult isn’t it?”

“Like you would know!”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I am a very responsible person! I have a meeting with the bank to renegotiate the mortgage on my shop at one-thirty.”

Mira glances at her watch, “do you still bank on 23rd?” 

“Yeah, why?”

“If you don’t leave in the next five minutes you’ll miss the bus.”

“Are you serious?” Patricia leaps to her feet, grabbing her coat and coffee, “walk me to the stop?”

“I would, but I promised my team I’d bring them sticky buns.” 

“Uh-huh, you and I both know you’ll get a dozen and three of them will make it to the office.” 

“Tch!” 

Patricia laughs, blows her a kiss, and practically sprints out the door. Mira takes her time finishing her cocoa and making her way to the counter to order a box of cinnamon and honey sticky buns, dropping a generous tip in the jar on her way out. 

The crosswalk is crowded and she moves slowly, trying not to jostle the mint green bakery box. Her elbow brushes against a woman wearing a fur coat and too much perfume going the other way and they shoot each other swift apologetic smiles. She makes it another two steps, before stopping, her nose wrinkling. 

Something stirs in the back of her consciousness, the sickly sweet chemical smell reminiscent of  _ something,  _ something she can’t quite remember but that makes pain explode behind her eye. She turns back, searching for the woman, for something, anything that will help her make sense of the sudden confusion. 

There’s a squealing sound, a horrifying crunch, and the world spins in circles. Her brain can’t make sense of anything for several dizzying moments. The road comes into view, grey surface slick with ice, warmth slides across her face, appearing in trickles of red that she only dimly recognizes as blood. 

_ Oh,  _ she thinks eyes sliding across the icy ground to the tire tracks in the center of the flattened mint box,  _ I’m going to need more sticky buns.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *laughs maniacally*
> 
> Thanks for reading, and as always, I'd love to know what you think! :)


	8. Kiddo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, here's another chapter.
> 
> The wonderful Illidria very kindly gave me permission to use her fantastic OC Ethan Herman. Thanks, dear, and I hope I've kept him in character. 
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> Warning: discussion of suicide, past suicide attempt

_ There’s a limit for every man. For Philip Gargantos Armstrong, it’s the sight of his eldest daughter lying in a hospital bed for the second time in as many weeks. She’s pale in spite of the bags of blood flowing back into her. Her hair is still damp, and her wrists are wrapped in bloody gauze. Angelica, beside him, is sobbing, Olivier’s pink and gold phone clutched in trembling fingers. He eases it out of her grasp gently and switches it on.  _

_ She’s changed the lock screen image. Before, it had been a shot of her with Buccaneer on his motorcycle, grinning and giving the camera a thumbs-up. Now, it’s a block of white text on a black screen. _

_ I couldn’t make it stop. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ It’s this more than anything that sends a jolt through him. It had been one thing to wake up at three in the morning and be told “your daughter has alcohol poisoning and you need to come to the hospital”, another to get there and find her confused and sobbing while a police officer asked pointless questions about what she had been wearing.  _

_ She’d been morose and quiet in the days following, glued to her phone and the updates from Buccaneer’s family. It was to be expected. He should have seen it coming, he thinks, when she had become secretive and distraught about the messages that were coming in at all hours. Should have known there was something off about them, but hadn’t until he’d received an anonymous message directing him to a fraternity’s site. The comments on the video he’d found were almost as disturbing as the video he couldn’t bring himself to watch.  _

_ Even so, he was shocked and disbelieving when he received the call that she had slit her wrists. Surely, there was some mistake, some cosmic accident, and yet there she was. At the end of the line. A suicide note, a razor blade from her art supplies, and a warm bathtub. That’s all it had taken. If Angelica hadn’t been hovering as much as she had--and he cursed himself for trying to tell her to give Olivier room--she would have died there in that tub. She felt out of choices, and he couldn’t blame her. Just barely eighteen and she already needed an out.  _

_ Slowly, he sets the phone on the hospital’s bedside table and stoops to kiss her forehead. She doesn’t respond, not even a blip on the many monitors, but his mind is made up. He takes his wife’s hand, squeezes it reassuringly, and steps out into the hall. He finds a quiet nook and pulls out his own phone. _

_ “Hello, Madame. That favor you owe me? I’m cashing in.” _

\---

“She’s  _ what?!”  _ Miles is halfway in the door, groceries tumbling from his arms onto the floor. “Why?! I’ll be right there!” 

Buccaneer pauses in his attempt to rescue the groceries. “Everything okay?” 

“No,” Miles fumbles as he tries to tuck his phone into his pocket, almost dropping it, “Mira’s in the hospital.” He pats his pockets blindly, “My keys! Where are my keys?” 

Buccaneer spots them still hanging in the door and stands up to grab them, “come on, I’ll take you.”

“What?” Miles pauses in his fumbling, “you don’t have to. I know you don’t like-”

Buccaneer grabs his arm, “you’re not in a fit state to drive yourself. Now, come on.” He ushers Miles out the door. The drive is tense, Miles’ leg shaking in the passenger seat, his hands clenching and unclenching on his lap. They’re fortunate enough to find a parking spot by the emergency room entrance and Miles practically sprints in, Buccaneer on his heels. 

“Can I help you?” 

“I’m looking for my girlfriend, she was in a car accident?”

“Name?”

“Mira Imageo.” 

The nurse scans over her screen and then requests IDs. They hand them over, and she leads them to a back room. Buccaneer hovers awkwardly in the doorway as Miles rushes in. Mira is sitting up in the bed, a bandage wrapped around her head and a tired, unfocused, look on her face. 

Miles’ grabs her hand and presses his face against her shoulder, she tilts her head to rest against his. He murmurs something in a rich, lilting, language and Buccaneer catches the only Ishvalan phrase he knows: _Ishvala Eluhad,_ which he’s pretty sure means “Ishvala be praised” _,_ before Miles turns to the doctor, “what happened? Is she going to be okay?”

“I’m fine, Miles.” Miles waves Mira’s murmur away, staring intently at the doctor. 

“She has a concussion, an abrasion on her forehead, and multiple contusions. We’re waiting on the CAT scan results, but-” the doctor pauses, “her behavior is indicative of a head injury.”

“What happened?” 

“We don’t have a police report, but what we were told was she stopped in the crosswalk and when the light changed, a turning car didn’t see her.” 

“Stopped? Why?” Buccaneer’s question earns him a dark look from Miles, but he doesn’t know why. The doctor shrugs at him.

“It was the perfume.”

“What?”

Mira touches her head, frowning as though in pain. “The perfume. I remembered it.” 

The doctor raises his eyebrows, “you remembered...?” She nods. “You remembered what?”

Miles tenses, looking like he wants to interject, but her frown deepens. “I don’t know.” 

“Well, I guess we’ll just see about those test results, then.” The doctor excuses himself, and Buccaneer finally steps all the way into the room. Mira tries her best to snuggle up to Miles, who has to keep gently nudging her back onto the bed, as they wait for the test results. 

“Mira, love, just how many painkillers did they give you?” She opens her mouth, but Miles shakes his head and smooths her tangled hair. 

Buccaneer settles himself on an uncomfortable chair and waits for the doctor to return, passing the time chatting with Miles and watching Mira groggily try to climb out of bed. When he does, he tells them the results showed nothing worse than the concussion, and after giving Miles several sheets of paper detailing her care, a painkiller prescription, and notes on how to avoid these types of injury in the future, and sends them on their way. 

Miles and Mira sit together in the backseat, Mira leaning sleepily on Miles, and isn’t until they stop at the pharmacy to pick up her prescription that Buccaneer makes an important realization. He’d spent a little over two hours in a hospital and he hadn’t had a single flashback or panic attack. He’d have to ponder that when he got the chance.

\---

_ “You aren’t serious. She’s a kid.”  _

_ Madame Christmas fixes him with a cool look, blowing a puff of smoke that he has to sidestep to avoid choking on. “She’s eighteen.” _

_ He snorts. “Same difference. Which begs the question of what she’s doing in your business.” _

_ “She isn’t in my business, Ethan. An old friend of mine called in a favor, and now I’m calling in one of my own.” They study each other before the woman sighs, “look, I could make her disappear on my own, but she wouldn’t last a week.” _

_ His eyes narrow. “Why?” _

_ “Tried to off herself a couple days ago. Her dad wants to make out that it worked.” _

_ “That’s-” he shakes his head, “to what end?”  _

_ “I’d imagine it has something to do with the media circus surrounding her right now. Poor girl.” Christmas gives him one of her calculating looks. “Come on, isn’t this just the kind of thing that got you involved in this to begin with?”  _

_ Madame Christmas pulls no punches, that’s for sure. Ethan Herman he runs his hands through his hair, ruefully. If anyone asked how he had gone from a respectable psychiatrist on the up and up to a human smuggler, he’d have to admit--in this purely hypothetical scenario where he didn’t deny everything--that it was exactly for reasons like this. Abusive husbands and boyfriends, stalkers, blackmailers, and the fucking media. He had lost one too many clients who couldn’t be persuaded to go to the police before the day had come that he’d simply thrown things into a bag and flown a patient straight to Xing. His methods had come a long way since then, but so had the ethical burden. Faked death certificates, and forged documentations were a far cry from what he’d intended to be doing, but if they saved lives? He couldn’t ever argue himself into quitting, hippocratic oath, be damned. _

_ “Fine, I’ll do it.”  _

_ Whatever her age, the girl in front of him was definitely a kid. She leaned on her mother and stared blankly at him when he made an attempt to introduce himself. As Christmas tries to soothe and reassure her nervous parents, he grabs her packed bag and empties it on the table. Hollow blue eyes track his every move as he turns over the packed belongings, discarding all belts, shoes with laces, technology, and sharp things, opting to toss aside a bag of pens and tools rather than sorting through them. It is the last point that the girl protests, speaking for the first time. _

_ “Hey! That’s my art bag!”  _

_ He raises his eyebrows at her and extends the bag. “You can keep anything that isn’t sharp: felt-tip markers, erasers, soft pencils.” _

_ “I want to keep all of them.”  _

_ He studies her, a spark of life and enthusiasm for anything is a good thing, but his eyes slide over her heavily bandaged wrists and he shakes his head. “What if we make a deal? You beat this-” he gestures at her arms, “and I’ll buy you a new art set.” _

_ She glares at him, disbelieving. “Some of this costs over a hundred dollars.” _

_ Well, fuck. He’s got no choice, now. Going back on his word while trying to build rapport with a defensive patient is the absolute worst choice. He nods, “no problem, kiddo.” Her mouth twists in a little frown, then her shoulders slump and she passes the bag back. He almost feels guilty as he tosses it in the bin with the other contraband. _

_ “Where are you going to take her?”  _

_ “With all respect, I can’t tell you that.” He tries his best to look sympathetic at her parents’ nervousness. “For this to work, she has to be dead to you. It’s the only way.”  _

_ He turns away to let them say their goodbyes in peace, opting to put the now much lighter bag in the trunk of the car. The girl comes over by herself, climbing into the front seat wordlessly.  _

_ “There’s an envelope in the glovebox; it has your new life in it. Learn it if you can, but there’ll be time if you can’t focus right now.” _

_ She nods, opening the glovebox and procuring the envelope. He switches on the radio and feels instantly more relaxed at the oldies that pour from the speakers. She reads silently for a minute, before she says, “this is bullshit. It’ll never work.” _

_ “First of all, if I used language like that at your age my mother would have blistered my butt.” He ignores her disdainful snort, and continues “second, it’s worked before.” _

_ “I’m supposed to trust someone who listens to seventies rock and roll?”  _

_ “Excuse me? The music was way better then.” Just keep her talking, anything is better than nothing with her. “Much better than that boy band nonsense you kids all listen to now.” _

_ “If you say so.” She goes quiet then, staring out the window for the remainder of their long, zigzagging journey. It’s almost dawn by the time they pull into the drive to the house that will serve as her own personal mental hospital until he’s sure she an live on her own.  _

_ He shakes her awake, but stops her from opening the door. “From this point on, you are Mira Imageo; Olivier Armstrong is dead.” _

\---

Mira’s bundled up on the sofa, all four men in the flat waiting on her hand and foot as she sips hot cocoa and happily watches an MMA fight that only she and Neil find remotely interesting. The effects of both the concussion and the painkillers have begun to wear off and she’s much more focused than before, but in spite of her insistence--mostly to Miles--that she’s fine, in a noticeable amount of pain. 

Miles is fussing over the placement of another ice pack, when a key turns in the lock. They’re all in the room, so they all turn and stare at the door in confusion. It swings open revealing a man Buccaneer has never seen before. Mira’s face lights up, but the face of the man in the doorway falls.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, kiddo. How the  _ fuck  _ did you manage to get yourself hit by a car?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> You should 110% go check out Illy's fics at: 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illidria/pseuds/Illidria
> 
> Herman is from _Keeping a part of the truth to yourself is not lying!_ and _A beast not slain_. 
> 
> As always, I'd love to know what you think. :)


	9. A Hard Pill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies, I _really_ don't want to write any more papers so here you are:

_ It’s not often that anyone knocks on the door to the basement apartment and Mira wonders if the person knocking is lost. She almost ignores it, but they knock again and she stops, pulling open the door. The person on the other side is the last person she expects to see. _

_ She tries to shut the door, but he pushes it open. “How did you find me?”  _

_ He pulls her into a bone crushing hug instead of answering, then releases her to frown down at her. “What the hell were you thinking? Vanishing on me? Sleeping on the streets?! Do you have any idea how fucking terrified I was?”  _

_ “Mira,” Miles emerges from the bedroom, pulling on a bathrobe, “who’s this?” _

_ “I should ask you the same thing!” _

_ “It’s none of your business, and don’t worry about him, Miles. He’s just leaving.” _

_ “It is absolutely my business, and I am  _ not  _ leaving until I have some answers.” _

_ “Do you need me to kick him out?” _

_ “Seriously, who is this guy?” _

_ “No, and it’s still none of your business!” _

_ “Look, Ki-” _

_ “No! I’m serious. Just,” she casts about angrily for the words, “ just go away!”  _

_ Miles steps forward, “look man, I don’t want any trouble, but you’ve been asked to leave so I suggest you do so.”  _

_ The man in the doorway glances at the Ishvalan--he’d left his glasses in the bedroom--and sighs. “I’m not leaving without Mira. I don’t know what plans you have, pineapple head, but she deserves better than this hellhole.” _

_ Miles straightens, a look of cold resolve covering his face. “I’ve been perfectly polite, but you need to leave. Now.” _

_ “Fine, come on.” He gestures to the door expectantly. Mira stays frozen in place, a vein popping dangerously in her forehead. “Mira?”  _

_ “No.” _

_ “Stop being ridiculous, and come on.” _

_ “Don’t look at me like that.” _

_ “Like what?” _

_ “Like I’m insane. You’re the one who makes me crazy!” _

_ Miles steps between them, “look, I’m guessing you’re her ex, or whatever, but-” _

_ “Ew, what? No! Gross!” _

_ He straightens, a look of pure offense on his face. “What kind of pervert do you take me for? I would never-! What have you been telling people, Kiddo?!”  _

_ “Wait. What?” _

_ “Herman’s not my ex, he’s-” she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, “he’s my psychiatrist.”  _

_ “You don’t have to roll your eyes when you say it!” _

_ Miles is holding his head, his face a mix between confusion and frustration. “Do you usually come to your patient’s homes and start insulting them?!” He shakes his head, “nevermind. Don’t answer that. But will someone tell me what’s going on?”  _

_ “Perhaps we should sit down. I’m sensing we got off on the wrong foot.” Herman ignores the “you think?” look that Mira shoots him and settles himself on a chair that creaks ominously and tilts dangerously to the left. Mira and Miles sink onto the sofa opposite, both eyeing the chair doubtfully. Comforting. He clears his throat. “Now. Who the hell is this-” he gestures vaguely at the Ishvalan, ”pineapple?” _

_ “Miles is-” Mira looks up at him, thoughtfully, “he’s my partner.” _

_ “That’s right.” Miles puts an arm around her shoulder and looks coolly down his nose at the psychiatrist.  _

_ “That’s...unexpected.” Herman clears his throat. Again. “Can we talk privately?”  _

_ “I know this isn’t where you wanted me to live, but I’m not leaving Miles.” Miles tightens his hold slightly in response. _

_ “I’m not saying permanently-” _

_ “Just get it over with, so you can leave.” _

_ Herman shakes his head, “Okay, Kiddo. What do you mean ‘I make you crazy’?”   _

_ “You know what I mean.” _

_ “We’ve talked about this, Kiddo. If you don’t like your meds we can try something else.” _

_ Mira waits for the flinch, the repulsion, but Miles rubs her arm comfortingly. “I’m sick of ‘trying something new’! If it’s not one thing, it’s another! None of the meds are working and I’m fine.” _

_ “This vanishing act says otherwise.” _

_ “I’ve been fine this whole time. If I wasn’t, Miles would know. And he knows I’m fine, right Miles?” _

_ Two sets of eyes watch him expectantly, and he bites his lip. “I don’t-I’m not a psychiatrist-” _

_ “That’s a no, then?” _

_ Mira pushes away from him, angrily. “Why are you siding with him? You think I’m crazy, too?”  _

_ “Mira-” _

_ “No one thinks you’re crazy! You’re sick; you need medicine. That’s all, Kiddo, I swear. If you had asthma, you would take medicine, wouldn’t you?”  _

_ Miles reaches across the sofa to take her hands, “look at me, love. I don’t know what medicine he’s talking about, and if you don’t think it helps, you don’t have to take it. But-” he hesitates, “does it make the nightmares stop? Let you sleep again? Will it help with those times when you’re-” he glances Herman who whispers “disassociating” and then turns back to Mira, “when you’re dissociating? Is there anyway it could make your life better?”     _

_ Mira looks miserable, her shoulders slumping, and angry scowl melting into a quiet whisper. “I’ve been doing my best.” _

_ “I know, love, I know,” Miles folds her into his arms, “you’re doing so well.” He strokes her hair and back, “I’m proud of you, I really am.”   _

_ “Come back to my office on Monday, Kiddo. We’ll talk through everything and see if we can come up with a new plan. Promise me that you’ll do that, and I’ll leave you alone.”  _

_ Mira nods, and pushes herself out of Miles’ embrace. She rises and embraces Herman, murmuring quietly, “I’m sorry I scared you.” _

_ “I know, Kiddo.”  _

_ She watches him leave and then slowly sits on the far end of the sofa from Miles. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” _

_ “You’re not really Mira Imageo, are you?” _

_ “What? How did you-?”  _

_ “You talk in your sleep. A lot.” _

_ “Oh.”  _

_ He smiles as he reaches over to her again. “There are a lot of things about you that never quite made sense. I thought at first, maybe you were an immigrant or in witness protection. Now, I think it’s a lot more complicated than that.” She heeds his gentle pull, resting her body over his and pressing her head to his chest. “Tell me if you want, don’t if you don’t, but I’ll admit I’m very curious.” _

_ “Don’t tell Herman I told you this, but my real name is Olivier.”  _

_ The truth comes slowly, bit by bit, her story unfolds in whispers and murmurs, encouraged by gentle coaxing and tender caresses.  _

\---

It probably would have been easier on Mira to stay on the living room sofa, but she didn’t trust her roommates to not have their ears pressed to their doors if she banished them to their rooms. Besides, it didn’t seem very fair that they have to put in the work when she was the one who wanted the privacy. She felt Miles’ eyes on her the whole way across the living room to their bedroom, and Herman’s hand hovers ready to catch her as she walks, but she manages to limp into her room and settle herself on the bed with a minimal amount of pain.

Herman shuts the door and takes his time looking around the room. “No art?” He asks after a moment, peering at the corkboard of photos and postcards that hangs above her desk. 

“No art,” she acknowledges and he makes what she playfully calls his “sassy therapist face”. She sighs. “I’m too busy for art. I use my skills for work and that’s enough.”

He pulls her chair out from the desk and settles himself in it. “Is it?” 

“Are you going to start with the questions again?”

He smiles a little, “does that bother you?” The pillow to the face is deserved, he supposes. “I almost don’t know where to begin, Kiddo.”

“You’re the psychiatrist.” 

“True,” he sighs and then gives her a look, “have you been taking your meds?”

“Mostly.” 

“Which ones haven’t you been taking?” 

“The sleeping pills.”

“Why is that?”

She shrugs, then winces, “I guess I should have brought those ice packs with me.”

“I can go get them while you think about why you’re not taking your sleeping pills,” Herman offers.

She shakes her head, “no need.” She doesn’t even have to clarify, because there’s a knock on the door and Miles’ pineapple-esque head peers in. Herman resists the urge to snort at the hairstyle and equally ridiculous sweater vest. Just like he does every time he sees him. 

“You left your ice packs,” Miles explains, “I thought you might need them.” She nods gratefully and he makes his way over to begin placing them on her injured body. He kisses her forehead, shoots a look at Herman, and leaves again.

“I haven’t been taking the sleeping pills because,” she pauses, thinking through her words, her brow furrowing, “they make me feel dead.”

“Dead?” 

“It’s a state in opposition to being alive.”

“You’re as sarcastic as ever, I see.” 

“Tch!” She shakes her head at him, picks at the blanket, then clarifies, “when I take them, I feel like I might not wake up.” He hums thoughtfully and she rolls her eyes at him. “When I’m getting ready to go to bed, and I think about taking pills I feel-” she bites her lip as she deliberates, “sometimes I need to wake up, and I can’t.”

“ _ Need _ to wake up?” He leans in, “why?” She says nothing, her arms crossed protectively over herself, and her face setting into her trademark scowl. “Are you having nightmares again?” She nods. “It’s been a while, do you know why they’re starting up again?” 

She looks at him a little too intensely, and the fingers on her right hand twitch slightly; sure signs her response is going to be a lie. He says nothing, waiting. Confidently, as though they’re not both aware she’s lying, she shakes her head.     

\---

Mira and Herman have a weird dynamic, Miles has never denied that. Once he and Herman had been sure of each other and their intentions toward Mira--and past the whole “pineapple” thing--he’d not had a problem with the man. He can feel Neil and Buccaneer’s confusion and their gazes on him, as they try to puzzle it out, but he ignores them. Karley, who has known them longest, smiles sympathetically, and then distracts the other two by switching over to a multiplayer game that has them battling each other loudly. He suspects he's the only one who notices Herman leaving, and he's definitely the only one who notices his slightly furrowed brow.

\---

_ The car’s in the shop, and walking together to the bar for work was pleasant enough, if a bit chilly, but sometime during their shift a freezing rain had started. They stand under the awning, while Kimblee locks the door and try to decide what to do. If it hadn’t been a Friday, they probably could have sat in the empty bar while they waited for the rain to let up, but Kimblee wasn’t one to pass up on the best tipping night of the week. _

_ “Well?” Miles glances at Mira, who is tightening her hold on her coat, “run for it?”  _

_ She nods and he takes her hand. They duck and dodge between various awnings and into bus stops as they try not to slip on the icy streets. In spite of their best efforts, they’re soaked through by the time they tumble in their own front door. They peel off their outer layers, kicking dirty shoes out of the way.  _

_ “You’re shivering! You need to go get in the shower and warm up.” _

_ Mira’s eyes seem to glow as they meet his in the half-light, her hand slips into his again, “you’re shivering, too.”  _

_ “Wha-?” _

_ “Come on.” She leads him to the bathroom, and he yields to the gentle pull without a word. Their clothes are soaked, ice crystals forming, so it makes sense to follow her into the small shower fully clothed. It’s only when the water begins to warm and she moves to tug off her shirt that he realizes there’s a limited number of ways for this to end.   _

_ “Mira, what are you-?”  _

_ She frowns at him, “taking off my clothes, what does it look like?” He does his best to not stare as the shirt removal reveals a purple bra and the most beautiful cleavage he has ever seen. “You should, too, you’ll warm up faster that way.” _

_ She begins working on the fly of her jeans, a tricky task with numb fingers, and his mouth opens and shuts soundlessly. She has a point, but at the same time, in spite of sleeping in the same bed for almost two months, the closest either of them has gotten to nudity in front of the other has been shirtlessness, and in her case, only from the back. He doesn’t know if she’s really ready to show him herself in such an open way, or to see him that way, for that matter. The cold is keeping his body from reacting, but if he warms up and gets a hard-on as he suspects he might, he’s afraid she’ll panic.  _

_ “I can wait-” _

_ “Do you want to catch your death of a cold?” She’s gotten her fly undone and pushes jeans down her legs. His eyes follow them, and he swallows hard. _

_ “No, but-” _

_ She tilts her head at him, pausing in her struggle with the wet denim bunched around her ankles, “I didn’t realize you were self-conscious about your body. I can turn around just as soon as I get my feet free.”  _

_ “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, just to be sure, as she slips and stumbles, grabbing his arms for support as she finally manages to extricate her feet.  He’s never considered himself the type to wax poetic, but he thinks dumbly that he could write sonnets about those eyes when she stares up at him. _

_ “I wouldn’t even be in here if I wasn’t.”  _

_ He nods resolutely, and sets to stripping off his own clothes. Mira bites her lip, but true to her word turns away.  _

_ “You don’t have to look away,” he says cautiously, “if you don’t want to.”  _

_ Instead of answering she sweeps her sodden hair over shoulder, “Can you unclasp my bra for me? My fingers are still numb.” _

_ He nods even though she can’t see him, and his fingers shake from more than the cold as he fumbles with the clasp. He’s never understood why men joke about these things being so difficult until just now. He’s blushing horribly, but he finally manages to undo it, and she lets the bra fall away. She pushes her panties down and off without another word and he forces himself to look away as she bends down to gather her garments from the shower floor. She turns around and smiles at him. _

_ “I’m going to put all the clothes outside, but you should hurry up and take off those boxers. I don’t want to open the door twice.”  _

_ He feels blood rush to his face in embarrassment, but also somewhere quite further south and he’s hard as he slips off the boxers and hands them to her. Her lips twitch as she opens the door and tosses the sopping bundle out. The rush of cold air making goose bumps erupt on both of them.  _

_ For a long minute, they simply look at each other, studying one another as intensely as though attempting to memorize their forms. She’d put on weight since moving in, no longer frighteningly slender, but healthy and curving, not only her hips and breasts fuller, but also her thighs, and even a little pooch on her belly. Miles has never seen anyone so beautiful in his life.   _

_ He’s unprepared for the weight of her as she pushes him against the back wall and kisses him. He reciprocates in kind, but pushes her away when she rocks against him, her intentions clear. Her look of hurt and confusion feels like a spike through his heart. _

_ “Mira, love-” _

_ “It’s fine.” She pulls back, crossing her arms over herself, hunching down. “I got carried away, it’s fine.”  _

_ “It’s not that I don’t want you!” He says quickly, and she shrugs a shoulder, her eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t want to do anything we’ll regret.” _

_ “I see.” She gives him a brave smile, “I’m sorry.” She turns back and begins shampooing her hair in silence. He watches her, trying to figure out what went wrong and how to fix it. She turns around again, and it takes more effort than he cares to admit to keep his eyes off her breasts and make eye contact with her. She looks away, watching the water run around her feet. “Is it because of the meds?” _

_ “What?” _

_ “The reason you don’t want to have sex with me?” _

_ “No, of course not!” _

_ “Then why?” She sounds angry and frustrated, “What do you think you’ll regret?”  _

_ “I want to do this right!” Her eyes flick to his face for a moment, confused. “I want you so badly, Mira, I do. But, I want to take you out, romance you, make love to you. Properly. Not crammed in a tiny shower in a lust-fueled haze.”  _

_ She’s silent for a long time, and then asks softly, all of her anger seemingly dissipated, “it isn’t because I’m damaged?”  _

_ He wraps his arms around her, “Mira, love, there is no part of you from here-” he kisses the top of her head, “-all the way down-” he trails his hand down her back, daring to caress her backside, “to here,” he nudges her toes with his foot, “that is  _ damaged  _ or broken. Inside or out. You are beautiful and strong and so incredible.” He takes a deep breath, “I think it’s obvious I’m attracted to you,” she snorts and he ignores her, “more than that, I care about you so so much. I’m asking you, please let me show you that by not making this one fling that ruins our relationship. Let me take you out, please, let me romance you and treat you with all the love and respect you deserve.” _

_  The silence after his impassioned speech is so long he thinks he’s really blown it this time, but Mira steps back. “Are you sure about this? I’m a complicated mess.” _

_ “Complicated? Yes,” he kisses the top of her head again, “but you’re not a mess. And if you’re willing to give me the chance, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than get to know you better, heart and soul.” _

_ In lieu of a response, Mira pulls him down to her level and kisses him.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this look into the origins of their ~~shower kink~~ relationship. ;)
> 
> As always please let me know what you think!


	10. We All Fall Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't sleep y'all, so I wrote this in an insomniac haze. It's tiny, but packs a punch. I hope you enjoy anyway, and please ignore the grammar issues that I'm sure are everywhere.
> 
> Warnings: discussion of suicide

Mira’s been working from home to avoid exacerbating her injuries, slowly taking over the entirety of the kitchen table, and is the only other one at the apartment when Buccaneer makes his way into the kitchen one blustery afternoon. She’s wearing black leggings, fuzzy purple socks, and a cream colored knitted pullover that he’s at least seventy percent sure is actually Miles’. She glances up from the laptop set squarely in the middle of reams of paper and smiles at him. 

“I’m about to make coffee, would you like some?” 

“Oh, yes, please.” She gives her mug an experimental prod, “mine’s all gone cold.” 

He hums as he makes the coffee, stirs in the inhuman amounts of cream and sugar that they both prefer, and sets a fresh mug beside her, glancing over her shoulder as he does so.

“That doesn’t look like work,” he comments, eyeing what looks like an auction website curiously.

She nods, “Miles birthday is next month and I’m trying to find a gift for him.”

“I didn’t realize he was into antiques.”

“He isn’t, exactly. He collects traditional Ishvalan literature and art. There’s a painting of the Twelve Priestesses he’s always wanted and I’ve been trying to find it. He has a print, but before the war, every Temple had a hand-painted one and now most of them have wound up in Amestrian collections.” She pauses, squinting at her screen. “The thing is, most of them have no idea about the significance and the labels they come up with-” she shakes her head, “well, anyway, it would mean a lot to Miles to get one.”

“Wow,” Buccaneer nods, impressed, “that’s really thoughtful.” Mira shoots him a dark look and he feels a blush coming on. “That came out wrong! It’s just I can never think of good gifts for people, and I panic and get them something lame.”

Mira, already focusing on her search again, snorts and mutters “like that nauseating perfume?”

For a moment he doesn’t think he can possibly have heard her properly, but then he’s sure and his stomach lurches, his mouth going dry. It takes another long moment for him to formulate words. “The perfume I gave Solaris in high school, you mean?”

Mira stills, her big blue eyes getting impossibly wider, and all color draining from her face. Her mouth moves forming words, but no sound escapes her.

“It’s really you!” His head is spinning, his heart pounding.

“I-”

“Olivier! What the actual fuck? This whole time, I thought you were dead and then I thought I was losing my mind!” She doesn’t respond, still staring, unseeing, at the wall behind her screen. “How?  _ Why? _ ”

She’s begun to tremble, and rubs her wrists together, hands wringing. He reaches for her, just wanting to to touch her, to feel for sure she’s alive and real and  _ there _ , and she flinches away. 

“I don’t understand, all this time and you’ve just-” he cuts himself off, drawing a deep breath as he’s overcome with emotions. Shock is giving way to anger. “You let me think,  _ all these years _ , that you were dead!” He’s trembling with rage, and she’s still staring at nothing. He slams a fist on the table, “look at me, dammit!” 

Her eyes fly around the room wildly and she’s faster than she looks, one second beside him, the next flying into her room, the door slamming behind her. 

“Olivier!” He follows, trying to open the door and finding it locked. He pounds on it. “Let me in! Olivier!” 

\---

Inside the room, she’s shaking. She can’t think, can’t breathe. He knows.  _ He knows.  _ Worse still, he’s angry. He’s rattling the door and shouting and she feels far away. In her head she hears a morbid child’s song about a plague. She staggers numbly forward, only aware she’s smashed her hand on the corner of the bedside table when she catches sight of blood in the mirror on the wardrobe door. 

_ Not now.  _ She can’t afford to disassociate right now.  _ Please, not now.  _ She can see herself in the mirror, knows she looks blankly angry, knows that if she were at work in public, she’d only look normal, but can’t feel her to change it.  _ It’s all falling apart.  _ Everything’s gone fuzzy, a kind of static in her brain muffling the sounds of Buccaneer still pounding and shouting. 

_ “It’s a way to protect yourself, Kiddo. When your brain can’t cope it just shuts down.”  _ She definitely can’t cope now. She’s gone cold, and there’s still blood smeared on the back of her hand. She pulls open the wardrobe and climbs in. She hates that she feels like she’s hiding, but she can’t trust herself right now.  _ She’s ruined everything. Again.  _ The cushion on the bottom and the blanket feel like failure, but she wraps herself up, pulls the door closed and closes her eyes. 

_ It’s all over. _

\---

Miles frowns at the shouting he hears as he steps off the elevator. Some of the neighbors manage to be incredibly loud for how little they’re there, but the further down the hall he gets, the more a feeling of dread sweeps over him. By the time he gets the door open, it’s a full-blown panic. 

He doesn’t stop to think, just bolts across the room to grab the much-larger man and pull him away from the door.  _ How dare he.  _ He doesn’t know what’s happening, but he can’t imagine a single scenario that would justify the man he believed to be his friend, and maybe someday something more, further traumatizing the woman he loves. Even as he’s yanking the other man away, he hears the thing that frightens him most.

_ “Olivier!”  _ Buccaneer’s below cuts him to the core.

In a feat of strength he did not know he ever possessed, he spins the veritable giant around and slams him against the wall. “How do you know that name?!” He grabs at the larger man’s collar. “Answer me! How do you know that name?”

Buccaneer is panting, and he slumps, any semblance of rage vanishing from him, his next words wobbling on the edge of a choked sob. “I thought she was dead. Because of me.” He stares at Miles, chest heaving, words bitter, “I thought I killed my best friend.” Miles stares, wordless and bewildered. “She faked her own suicide? Why would she do that to me? How much would she have to  _ hate  _ me to want me to suffer like this?”

It comes together slowly, but clearly. Mira’s worsening nightmares and the parts of her story that he knows are still too painful to explain. Miles releases Buccaneer’s collar to grip his arm far more gently. “It wasn’t because of you.” Of this, he is certain. “She wasn’t trying to make anyone else suffer,” he swallows around a rising lump in his throat, “she didn’t fake the attempt. Just the result.” This doesn’t seem to ease any of Buccaneer’s pain, and he slides down the wall as Miles steps away. 

He wants to comfort the man, but Mira’s safety comes first and he unlocks the door, stepping in uncertainly. There’s a smear of blood on the bedside table, and another on the wardrobe door. He grabs the first aid kit that he keeps in the dresser and lowers himself to sit beside the wardrobe.

“Mira, love?”

Silence. 

He pries the door open carefully and peers in at her. If he didn’t know her, he’d think she liked sitting in wardrobes and was angry at him for opening the door. 

“Love, can I see where you’re bleeding?”

Slowly she lifts one hand, looks at it, and the checks the other, extending that one when she finds blood. 

He cleans it gently, and wraps her hand in a bandage. He doesn’t even know what to say as he finishes, and he rests his head against the side of the wardrobe, exhausted. Time moves like molasses as they sit and breathe together, words both inadequate and overwhelming difficult.

“Liv?” They both turn their heads to see Buccaneer hovering in the doorway, attempting to look as small and non-threatening as possible. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” The guilt on his face is overwhelming. “Please believe me when I say I’d never hurt you. I’m just, I’m sorry, Liv. I understand if you need me to leave. I can be gone by tonight if you need.”

Miles wants to ask where he’d even go, but it’s not for him to say anything. He turns to Mira as she thinks. For a long moment, he thinks she’ll remain silent, but she shakes her head slowly. “Don’t leave.” Her voice is thick, and she clears her throat. “It’s all my fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry.


	11. In Ruins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I have a new chapter for you!
> 
> Warnings: there's some discussion of previously referenced rape and suicide. Nothing worse than before, but some from Solaris/Lust's viewpoint and her head is a weird place. Stay safe, okay?

_ “I want to try something new today.” Mira looks up at him, her face apparently angry, but he know that’s her resting face. It makes it harder for him to read her mood, but he tries to keep optimistic about it. “You like art, right?” _

_ Mira sits in front of the canvas and runs her fingers over the brushes and the bright, shiny, tubes of paint. They’re far from the pricey ones she’s used to, but he’s hopeful she’ll like them all the same.  _

_ “Art therapy?”  _

_ “That’s right.” _

_ “What do you want me to paint?” _

_ “What do you want to paint?” They sit in silence. Mira keeps touching the paints like she wants to open them, but then pulls her fingers away. Finally, he asks “what’s holding you back?” _

_ She shrugs, touches the canvas carefully with one finger which she pulls away almost immediately. “I don’t want to ruin it.”  _

_ “Why do you think you’ll ruin it?”  _

_ She snorts angrily. “I ruin everything!”  _

_ He frowns, leaning forward, “I certainly don’t think that’s true, but what makes you think that?”  _

_ “I ruined my best friend’s relationship.” She looks like she wants to cry and grabs a tube of red paint, squeezing it tightly. “I ruined our friendship. I destroyed my family-” her hand clenches tighter and the tube bulges ominously, “I almost got him  _ killed. _ ” She swallows, and continues angrily, “I couldn’t even get suicide right!” The tube breaks, squirting paint all over her and the canvas. She stares at it. “I thought it would make things right, but it just made everything worse.” _

_ In his professional psychiatry days, he’d have responded differently, but those days are behind him; He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I know, Kiddo.” She falls against him and he puts his arms around her, ignoring the smears of paint now being transferred to his clothes, “I know.”   _

\---

_ It’s hot and humid in the late spring sun, but he’d promised Liv he’d go to her last track meet, and Buccaneer shifts on the bleachers, congratulatory blue sports drink in his hand. He’s already tempted to drink it and the runners are still lining up. He sighs, but Liv pauses in her stretching to wave at him and he sits up straighter to smile and wave back.  _

_ “Hey, handsome.” _

_ He jumps at the voice in his ear. “Solaris! I thought you hated track.”  _

_ His girlfriend smiles, nudging her way under his arm, “I do. But I knew you’d be here.” She smooths her hair, and looks out over the track. “I can see why you like this.” _

_ He laughs, “it’s boring as all get out, but thanks for trying. I’m just here for Liv.”  _

_ “Oh, I know. Gotta get that ogling in somehow.” _

_ “What?” _

_ She laughs, “you know what I mean. I don’t blame you, I mean, look at those shorts.” He pulls away from her slightly to look at her in confusion and she rolls her eyes. “Don’t play coy, I’m not even into girls and  _ I  _ think she has a nice ass.” She nudges him, “don’t you think she has a nice ass? Look at it.” _

_ “I, um,” he’s red from ear to ear, “I mean, I guess? I’ve never really-”  _

_ “You’re so cute!” She plants a kiss on his cheek and he can’t help but smile, even knowing she’s left a big red lipstick mark behind. “You know why I like you?” _

_ “Because I’m so adorable?” By his ancestors, he’s glad Liv didn’t hear that. Truth be told, in spite of all the things Liv had told him on countless nights during many existential crises, he really has no idea why anyone would want to date him, let alone a popular girl like Solaris. _

_ “Exactly.” She nudges him again, playfully. “And you’re so sweet.” He blushes and she bites her lip. They sit in silence, then join in the cheering as the race begins. Solaris grabs his arm as they sit back down. “Look, there is something I wanted to talk to you about.” _

_ “Yeah?”  _

_ “You know that party at the Archer’s this weekend?” _

_ “What? Oh yeah! I’m really pumped for it!” He’s feigning enthusiasm, never one for keggers and the like, and they both know it.     _

_ She laughs lightly, “I have good news for you on that front. I’ve heard that Frank’s supplying” she leans in a little, lowering her voice, “drugs, and I know how you feel about that kind of stuff. Anyway, the rumor is there’s going to be a bust and I know you need to avoid that to keep your scholarship, so I know we wanted to go together, but I was thinking maybe we shouldn’t. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”  _

_ “Oh, wow. Thanks, Solaris. Are you sure? I know you want to-”   _

_ “Of course I’m sure.” She smiles at him, squeezing his arm and then laughing, “if you want to really make it up to me, we could go makeout.” _

_ “But, the race-” _

_ “We’ll be back in time to see the end,” she stands up, pulling him toward the parking lot--and the backseat of her car--“now, come on.” _

_ He follows, glancing at the sky and muttering a silent thanks to his ancestors, bright blue sports drink forgotten. _

_ - _

_ “Oh, Livvie, I didn’t know you were coming,” Solaris sweeps her gaze over the other girl, taking in the short white romper and bright pink lipstick, as different from her own black and red color scheme as could be, before thrusting a plastic cup at her. “Well, since you’re here, have a drink.” _

_ “Where’s Buccaneer?” _

_ “Like I’d tell you, you little slut. He’s not interested in you so back off.”  _

_ “Fuck off, Solaris. I just want to know so I can avoid him. I used to think he’s too good for you, but now I know you two deserve each other.” _

_ For some reason this makes Solaris laugh, “Little Livvie has claws! Well, I’ll drink to that!” She grabs the plastic cup back and chugs half of it, before returning it to Olivier who eyes her doubtfully, shakes her head, and finishes it off.  _

_ Solaris almost feels guilty as she catches up to the other girl an hour later and guides the now-drunk Olivier toward the stairs. “Buccaneer is coming in from the back, so you should go upstairs if you still want to avoid him.” It’s a lie, but believable enough. If Buccaneer had been there, she would have needed to keep them separated anyway, because he didn’t know it, but he loved Olivier. Even not knowing what she had planned, he would have taken one look at Olivier, wobbling in her heels and grinding drunkenly against anyone who made a pass at her, and whisked her away to sober up at one of their houses far away from the party.  _

_ Olivier is his everything that stands in the way of her taking her relationship with Buccaneer where she wants it: sexual. Try as he might to deny it, Buc has mentally placed Olivier on a pedestal: a pure, undefiled, angel that he longs to touch but fears being burned by. Seeing her hook up with a guy like Frank Archer should destroy that image in an instant. _

_ She wonders if it’s worth it as Olivier, who’d gone easily with Frank at first, begins to fight back. She deletes the part of the video where Olivier had gotten to her feet--and her phone--and desperately tried to get help. There’s no way to erase the sound of Olivier’s head hitting the edge of the bed when Frank throws her or the scream as his weight forces her back onto shards of glass from a bottle broken in her drunken attempt to flee, from her mind.  _

_ Olivier had never been popular, too straight-laced and high-achieving for her own good, but Solaris doesn’t feel as satisfied as she’d imagined when she hears the video, and subsequent cyber attacks, have driven her to suicide. She doesn’t quite know if she feels guilty, either. The media had been calling it a “scandal” and putting it on the same level as other rich kids who get drunk and puke on some minor celebrity’s lawn, but she knows the truth; something she reminds Frank of when he panics and threatens to drag her into his court-proceedings.  _

_ Things never work out with Buccaneer. She can’t even bring herself to visit him in the hospital, she doesn’t know if he knows what she’s done and doesn’t want to find out. She sends a bouquet of red and white roses to the Armstrongs without a note and moves all the way to Aurego with a new boyfriend. She never looks back.   _

\---

Herman can’t come by, but he speaks to Miles and Mira over the phone, though the latter refuses to say more than a few words to him. He even speaks with Buccaneer for a little while, explaining a little bit of the situation and asking him to be gentle with Mira even while acknowledging his emotions as valid and understandable. 

Mira crawls out of the wardrobe to nestle against Miles. “Buc, I’m so sorry,” she whispers for what might well be the tenth or twentieth time, “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know, Olivier, or Mira? I’m so confused.”

“Better stick with Mira,” Miles suggests, reaching for Buccaneer’s arm and stopping short, “she could still get in trouble if anyone finds out.”

Buccaneer leans a little closer allowing Miles to rest his hand on his shoulder, “I can do that.” Hesitantly, he reaches a hand to Mira’s shoulder and this time she doesn’t flinch away, and he rubs it as gently as he can with his prosthetic arm. “I’m sorry, Mira. If I had been smarter, I would have seen through Solaris and none of this would have ever happened.”

“This isn’t your fault!” Mira sits up a little, the spark in her eyes the first sign of liveliness since she’s crawled into the wardrobe. “Buc! I never blamed you!”

“I blamed me,” he mutters, choking back tears, “I let you down.”

“You lost your arm trying to save me!” 

“But-”

“No buts! This isn’t your fault!”

“Well, it’s not yours, either!”

“Good,” Miles interjects quickly, “we’re all agreed, it’s no one’s fault.” When the other two both nod, he smiles and squeezes both their shoulders. “Let’s go eat something, okay? Food always helps.” 

They scavenge in the fridge before giving up and ordering Xingese. Karley is over at Kain’s house and Henschel is at a conference with some of his classmates, so they all curl up in front of the television, putting in  _ Ever After  _ which Miles describes as the “perfect comfort movie”. 

It seems to work because Mira curls up between them, her head resting on Miles and her feet pulled up into Buccaneer’s lap. It seems natural enough, Buccaneer only registering surprise when he’s done trying to reposition his rice so she doesn’t spill it everywhere. Within minutes of finishing her huge serving of chicken and noodles, she’s asleep.

Buccaneer watches Miles smooth her hair away from her face, and clears his throat. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

Miles’ glances up at him, surprise obvious but smiles. “Anything. What’s on your mind?” 

“How are you not angry? I mean, about the lie?” 

“I assume you’re asking because you’re angry?”

“No! Yes? I don’t know,” he admits with a sigh.

“The thing is, when I met Mira she was just that: Mira. The girl you knew, Olivier? She was long dead. To her, they’re not the same person. They can’t be, because she worked so hard to put that life behind her.” Buccaneer stares blankly at him and he sighs. “Earlier, you said she had to have hated you to fake her own suicide, and I said she only faked the result, not the attempt, remember? She tried to kill herself and when she woke up she was given a whole new life. At the time it seemed like a gift. She-”  

“At the time?” 

Miles fixed him with an unimpressed look, “she can’t ever go home, Buc. She can’t see her family or even let them know that she’s out here and doing okay. When you came here, it was worlds colliding. I wish she had felt comfortable telling me, and that’s something we’re probably going to have to deal with, but for now, I’m focusing on the positives.”

“Does her family know?”

“Her parents are the ones that set it up, but as far as I’m aware they never told her siblings. It’s not exactly legal to change your whole identity they way she did.” 

Buccaneer nods thoughtfully, and after a few minutes asks, “do you think she’s going to be okay?”

“Well, it’s a lot, but she’s strong. She can get through anything, especially if she has people who love her at her side.” Buccaneer nods and Miles nudges his shoulder gently, “the same goes for you, you know that, right?”

A smiles blossoms on the big man’s face. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this weird little chapter, and please do let me know what you think!


	12. Bubblegum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Another chapter for you! 
> 
> Happy reading!

There’s more than one way to seek comfort, as Miles remembers when he wakes to find Buccaneer has draped a blanket over them and returned to his room. He tries to move carefully and not wake Mira, but he has a crick in his neck and he wants to sleep in his own bed. She wraps her arms around his neck and groans sleepily as he stands up. 

“Sorry, love, you’ll be more comfortable, soon.” Miles catches her legs as she winds herself around him, trying to keep him from leaving. He hefts her into his arms, deciding to take her with him, rather than leaving her alone or being pulled back onto the uncomfortable sofa.

“Mmh,” she shifts, almost making him drop her and presses kisses to his neck, clawing at the back of his shirt and cupping the back of his head, burying her fingers in his spiky hair. 

He mutters a curse under his breath, half-hearted and amused as he struggles to get into their room and close the door behind them. He can feel her amused chuckle as huffs against his neck and vibrations in her chest.

“You’re in a good mood.”

“I will be,” she replies, her voice heavy with intent, “if you’re up for making it good.” He drops her onto the bed, not a far fall, but enough to make her protest, laughing even as she does so. “I don’t know if that’s a yes, or not?” 

He crawls over her, kissing her and feeling her arms wrap around him, followed by her legs, pulling him as close as possible and then  _ closer _ . “What do you think?” He breathes against her neck, kissing and nipping at it as she grabs his ponytail, burrowing her fingers into his hair and making his eyes water, arousal increasing with every touch.

He grabs her waist, fingers working their way under her pullover, pulling it up as he goes, hands caressing soft skin as she scrabbles at the back of his shirt and then grabs his ass. He kisses her again before yanking the shirt the rest of the way off. His lips make their way down her skin as she tugs at his shirt. He helps her get it off, returning to his ministrations as quickly as possible. 

His fingers hook in the waistband of her leggings, and he barely lets her catch her breath, before he pulls them down, yanking them off with her socks. The complete lack of underwear isn’t missed by him, and he thinks with a pang that she had probably had every intention of seducing him much earlier in the day. He doesn’t allow himself to linger on the reason she hadn’t or the reason she’s so desperate for his touch now, instead moving immediately to press a kiss to her inner thigh. 

“Miles?” 

“Hmm?” He raises his head to meet her eyes.

“Don’t be gentle.” He frowns at her, absolutely bewildered. “I want to feel something.”

He doesn’t want to hurt her, especially as she’s still bruised from her run in with the car, but he understands--as much as he can having never experienced dissociation--that she feels empty, unmoored, and helpless. He returns to what he was doing, but instead of gentle kisses begins to lick and nip her, sliding a finger deep into her and earning a soft moan of pleasure. He continues pushing in another finger and then a third swiftly, turning and twisting them, making her gasp and buck on the bed. He pressed his other hand flat on her hip, holding her down as his lips closed around her clit. She gasped, arching up a little into his grasp and then going to still. He kept his movements swift and steady until she collapsed back onto the mattress.

Miles scrambles to his feet as she pants, shoving his pants off and crawling back over her as quickly as possible. He kisses her and she doesn’t shy away from the taste of herself on his lips, kissing him back eagerly. She rocks her hips pointedly and he smiles against her lips before shifting to grip his member and align it with her entrance. He slides into her easily, and she wraps her legs around his hips, pulling him both further in and closer. They move together, skin sliding against skin, moans and whispers of tender affection mingling. He doesn’t pull out until long after they’ve both come, revelling in the closeness, and only sliding away from her when he’s so fatigued he knows he can’t stay awake any longer.  

\---

Karley wasn’t being the best boyfriend, sprawled on Kain’s bed, earbuds in and focused on his laptop, but if anyone deserved that title it  _ was _ Kain. The slightly smaller man pads into the room, holding a plate of cheese and crackers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He sets the food on the bedside table and flops down beside Karley, peering over his shoulder curiously.

He feels the gentlest tug on the cord of his earbud, enough to catch his notice but not enough to pull it loose. “Whatcha up to?”

He smiles slightly as he pulls the earbud out, “sorry, it’s this thing for Buccaneer.”  He closes the laptop and sits up, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend. “Wine and cheese?” His grin is accompanied by a kiss to Kain’s cheek. “And you say you’re not romantic.”

Kain turns a satisfying shade of pink, smiling almost shyly. “I’m not, I asked Roy for ideas and-” he broke off, “-oh no! I forgot wine glasses! I wanted to be classy and-”

Karley kisses him, silencing him at once. “So? We’ll drink out of the bottle. It’s more fun this way.”

“Are you sure? I know I have at least some regular glasses in the kitchen.”

“Trust me,” Karley grins, pulling his keys out of his pocket and popping his keychain corkscrew into the cork, not giving Kain time to apologize for having forgotten one, “this way is better.” He pops the cork out, takes a swig, and hands the bottle over, nudging Kain’s thigh with his knee. “You’ve been quiet tonight, is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine, I’ve just been wondering--nevermind.”

“No, go on. What have you been wondering?”

Kain takes a too-big gulp of wine and sputters for a moment. Karley grabs a shirt that’s probably his to begin with off the bedside table, and he wipes his face, taking his glasses off and wiping them on it, too. “I just-” he’s quiet, still fiddling with the glasses, and Karley puts a hand on his knee and leans in, his concern growing. “It’s not that I don’t like having you here, but why don’t you ever invite me back to your apartment?”

Karley suppresses a groan as he throws his arm around the smaller man and pulls him to his chest, rubbing his back affectionately. “It isn’t because I’m embarrassed of you or anything like that, so you put that idea right out of your head.” 

“Then why?”

“Oh, Kain, I’ve got four roommates! I love them, but they’re all nuts. I’m the youngest there, so they all think they’re, like, my older brothers or something. I didn’t want them to scare you off. And besides-” he rubs his eyes, “-one of them got hit by a car last week and they’ve all been acting weird, and there’s this unresolved sexual tension, and it’s just kind of weird-”

“Wait. You lost me at ‘one of them got hit by a car’.”

“Yeah, me too.” He sighs, “you remember Mira, right?”

“Uh-huh, she seemed really cool--collected, you know?”

“Oh, she’s definitely cool, but that collected thing is an act. She’s amazing, but you can tell, she’s seen some shit. I honestly couldn’t tell you if she stopped in front of the car on accident or on purpose.”

“Oh.” Kain takes another swig of wine, this time more gracefully, while he thinks. “Is she dangerous, to people other than herself, I mean?”

“I don’t think so. Not us at least. She’s actually really sweet, and she was doing well for a really long time. It’s only the past few months that she started to fall apart again. I wasn’t there until the tail end of it last time, but what I saw was enough for me. I don’t know how Miles does it.”

“I do.”

“Huh?”

“He loves her, you can see it on his face so clearly it’s the main thing I remember from the time I did meet him. I don’t think it’s easy for him, but he must find it worth it.”

Karley has to give Kain another squeeze in response. “Aaw, you really are a secret romantic.” 

“Shut up,” Kain mutters, cheeks pinking from more than just alcohol.

“You don’t mean that!” He receives an elbow in the ribs in response and sits back a little to be able to look him in the face properly. “That’s enough about that, though. I hope I haven’t given you the wrong idea about Mira, though, she really is lovely. One time, I gave a pack of bubble gum to a kid in the hospital and he stuck it all over his equipment. Apparently, he has a history of it and I wasn’t supposed to give it to him, but  _ I _ didn’t know that. The nurses were furious, but she managed to get it mostly smoothed over.” 

Kain laughs, “did you really not know, or did you just think the rule didn’t apply to you?”   

Karley pulls back slightly, aiming for mock offense and falling just a little flat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You like to bend the rules, that’s all. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s alright.” Karley runs a hand through his hair and then sighs, sitting back and pulling his knees up to his chest. “Look, there’s something else I should have told you, but I’ve always been too afraid. I didn’t think we would get this far, you know, and then once we did, I didn’t want to lose you. I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” Kain leans in, grabbing his hand. “Don’t look so despairing! Whatever it is, I’m sure we can work it out!”

Karley gives him a miserable smile. “I’ve heard that before.” He clears his throat, “sorry, I promise I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me so you won’t break up with me. It’s just, Kain, I like you so much, and you’re way too good for me.”

Kain relaxes slightly, squeezing his hand. “Don’t say that, you’re amazing.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m-” he takes a deep breath, “Kain, I’m a felon.”

“I know.”

“You-” he stops, shaking his head. “ _ What?” _

“You remember my friend, Riza? She’s a federal agent; she told me.”

“Oh. Then why-?”

He shrugs, “it was a long time ago. You never seemed dangerous to me, and she said it was political or something. I figured you would tell me eventually.”

“Well-” he shakes his head. “Did she tell you what I did?”

“No, I didn’t want to hear it. Not from her.”

“It was really stupid, I was a kid. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, I just thought it would be a bit of harmless fun.” Kain waits patiently, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb encouragingly. “I figured out how to hack into President Bradley’s email and I sent a bunch of really stupid messages to, like, some government officials, and the President of Drachma.”

Kain’s lips twitch. “Wait! That was you?! I was in the  _ third grade. _ It was a national incident! How old were you even? Are you serious?” 

“I know, I know. I’m so embarrassed.” He hides face, pressing it against his knees. “Ugh, it was so stupid! I was under house arrest for years, and they wouldn’t let us have any technology more advanced than a radio. And then, when I was old enough I was enrolled in this federal program to rehabilitate hackers and-”

“Now you’re an internet security specialist who’s stuck making a pittance for the federal government.” 

“Yeah. I have a lot of my rights back, but-” he shrugs in an imitation of casualness “-not all.” 

“Only a radio? Is that why-” he gestures toward the earbud still in Karley’s ear.

He nods, touching the cord thoughtfully. “My parents were always fighting after that. I would put on the radio, it didn’t matter the station as long as it was music and not talk radio, and turn it up as loud as I dared. They split up because of me.” He shrugs again. “Neither of them wanted me, so I guess that’s part of why I wound up in the program.”

Kain is silent a moment, before practically launching himself at his boyfriend. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.” 

Karley buries his face in his ridiculously soft sweater and says nothing, too afraid to cry. They curl up together, sip away at the wine and munch the cheese and crackers, quiet but comfortable together. Eventually, sleep claims them and they let their worries melt away.

It’s only the next morning, when Kain wakes slowly and peers over the already-awake Karley’s shoulder at his file for Buccaneer that they find a new problem. 

“Hey,” Kain points between yawns, sleepily pressing into Karley’s side, “why does Buccaneer need pictures of Mira?”

“It isn’t Mira, silly, it’s a girl who died.” He frowns, leaning in to his screen. “What the hell? You’re right; that is Mira.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and as always, please let me know what you think! :)
> 
> Also, shout out to pigeonfluff/fluffmonger who has really inspired me to write more Karley/Kain and whose work really helped me get a handle on their interactions. Thanks, friend. :D
> 
> ETA: I'm a mess, but feel free to check out bydayandknight.tumblr.com for updates, and to send in requests and things. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Please do let me know what you think!


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